


everything magical

by rooonil_waazlib



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And some other stuff too, Dry Humping, Hair-pulling, Ice Cream Shop AU, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Meet-Cute, based off an isr fill i wrote ages ago, just like a lot of sex i guess, mild tones of D/s, two incredibly awkward people trying to fall in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-03-29 03:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13918416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rooonil_waazlib/pseuds/rooonil_waazlib
Summary: “Everything good, everything magical happens between the months of June and August. Winters are simply a time to count the weeks until the next summer.”—Jenny Han,The Summer I Turned Pretty-Steve’s just about to apologize when the girl elbows her brother again. “Ask him out, Bucky,” she says, still looking at Steve, not even pretending to whisper.The man—Bucky—turns to gape at her. “Becca,” he hisses.“What?” she asks, smirking. “You said you want to.” She winks at Steve. “Or you can ask him. He’ll say yes, I promise.” Steve’s heart pounds a little—should he?-Or, the summer romance between an ice cream shop owner and a PhD student, and the autumn pining that follows.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome to yet another self-indulgent fic about two very awkward people trying to fall in love! this fic expands on [a fill i did for imaginesteverogerss](https://imaginesteverogerss.tumblr.com/day/2017/03/20/) about a year ago.
> 
> tags to be updated when i figure out what's going to happen here. xox

Steve loves the hot days, and not just because they’re good for business. He takes Honey out for a long run along the river before the sun gets too high, then takes her home before he heads to the shop to open up.

It’s already cool in the shop; last night he’d set the thermostat to start air conditioning at six this morning, and he queues up a cheery poppy playlist and checks the temperature on the freezers. He props open the front door and sits in one of the front booths, the chalk sandwich board on the table so he can draw a big ice cream cone and write the forecast: sun all day, and ninety-five degrees.

He’s adding half a scoop of dulce de leche—with real caramel swirls—to his coffee when the first customers arrive. The grumble of an engine running at a low gear drowns out Taylor Swift’s voice—fine by Steve—and he watches out the window as a teenage girl, lanky with a growth spurt, climbs off the back of a shiny grey Triumph. She pulls off her pink helmet with its big Punisher skull sticker, and both she and Steve watch as the driver swings his long leg up and over the seat too, cutting the engine as he does.

Steve can’t help but stare as he pulls off his helmet and runs one big hand through his wavy dark hair, tousling it into beautiful dishevelment. He’s muscular; the sides of his shirt are cut all the way down to his hips, and Steve can almost imagine how his waist would feel holding his legs apart.

Grabbing his mug, Steve takes a huge swig of coffee, hoping to burn those thoughts out of his head before the two come inside. They’re siblings, obviously; the girl holds the door for the man, but sticks out her foot at the last second to trip him. He shoves her head sideways as they approach the counter.

The man is even more beautiful up close: his eyes a dark grey-green, his mouth expressive. Steve wants to draw him. Touch him. Blow him. He gives Steve a half-smile—Steve’s heart actually quails a little—just before his sister steps on his foot.

“Quit it, Bec, or I won’t buy you anything,” he says, bodychecking her. “I swear, I’ll get a big giant mint chip cone and I won’t let you have any.”

She sticks her tongue out at him. “How did I know you’d say that?” she asks. “I brought my own money.” Walking up to the counter while Steve grins, she slaps a ten on the stainless steel and looks up at him. She has the same eyes as her brother. “Can I have a scoop of bubble gum and a scoop of black licorice, please?”

As Steve gets to scooping—does he scratch at his bicep a little, hiking his sleeve up just a little so that his shoulder is a little more on display? Well, maybe—the man makes a retching sound, shuffling his sister’s hair. “That’s gross, Bec,” he says. “That’s  _fuckin’_  gross.”

“Right,” she replies, watching as Steve scoops. “Because the guy who likes bobas and sprinkles  _and_ chocolate sauce on his tangerine ice cream should be the judge of what’s gross in this world.”

Steve bites his lip to try and suppress his grimace, because honestly, that is probably the most disgusting thing he’s ever heard. But the man catches him anyway.

“I’m being ganged up on,” he grumbles as his sister takes her cone from Steve, “I don’t even _know_  you and you’re laughing at me! Sue me for having a sweet tooth!”

Steve’s just about to apologize when the girl elbows her brother again. “Ask him out, Bucky,” she says, still looking at Steve, not even pretending to whisper.

The man—Bucky—turns to gape at her. “ _Becca_ ,” he hisses.

“What?” she asks, smirking. “You said you want to.” She winks at Steve. “Or you can ask him. He’ll say yes, I promise.” Steve’s heart pounds a little—should he?

“Becca!” Bucky says again, grabbing her and slapping a hand over her mouth. She almost drops her ice cream. His face is going pink. It’s an attractive color on him; Steve tries not to wonder if he goes that color during sex. “Shut. Up.”

Snickering, Becca peels his hand off her face, pinkie first. “He saw you closing the other day and he’s been trying to get me to come for ice cream ever since,” she says, rushing to say it all while her brother tries desperately to cover her mouth again. Steve is…painfully charmed by the pair of them, this meddling girl, this big man who so clearly cares for his sister. “He’s been calling you ‘what dreams are made of’ because he can’t read your nametag, which clearly says ‘Steve.’”

“Becca, I am receiving my PhD next year,” he says.

She shrugs. “Yeah, in  _kinesiology_. You don’t need to know how to read for that. Clearly.”

Bucky groans and lets go of his sister so he can cover his red face with both hands. “You’re the worst person ever to exist,” he mutters.

She licks her ice cream, looking between Steve and Bucky with a bland expression on her face. Steve tries not to blush too hard; he thinks he might be matching Bucky. “Pretty sure that’s not true.”

For a second, Steve considers saying nothing, but Becca is looking at him like she expects him to join in. “Um, I mean, I don’t know you, but you probably can’t be worse than the Red Skull,” he says.

“The Mandarin is  _definitely_  worse than me,” Becca says, patting Bucky on the arm.

“Arguably General Ross.”

Becca snaps her fingers and points at Bucky. “Loki.”

Bucky holds out his hand to stop her. “Gods don’t count,” he snaps.

Shrugging, Becca licks at a drip on her ice cream cone. Steve watches as she tugs on her brother’s thumb. “Listen, Bucky, I’m just trying to help you meet your soulmate,” she says. “See if I try next time. Just wait and see.”

He turns to glare at her. “ _God_ , Becca,” he grits, “I was going to get to it, okay?” Letting out a deep sigh, he turns back to Steve. “Fuck. What are you doing after this, Steve?”

 

Sharon arrives at four for her closing shift. Steve hangs up his apron and leaves her to deal with the eight people waiting in line. Normally he might stay on a little longer, help until a lull in customers, but today he’s got to run home, walk Honey, shower, and figure out what the fuck he’s supposed to wear on a walk in the park with potentially the hottest man he’s ever met, all before six o’clock.

By the time he’s standing in front of his bureau it’s five-thirty. Luckily, Sam’s probably on the train home, therefore free to help; so Steve sends him a text asking for outfit help.

 _I’m not qualified to comment on these matters_ , Sam replies. _Misty told me so when I tried to wear my camo pants to work this morning._

Steve snorts. _I’ll ask her._

 _U can’t do that or she’ll know I admitted defeat_ , Sam tells him. _Wear that light blue shirt and those jeans that make Tony sing Baby Got Back._

Grinning, Steve puts his phone down to pull on his clothes, then sends a picture of himself, coy expression and all, to Sam, who texts back several water emojis. Steve sticks his phone in his pocket, fixes his hair, and gives Honey a big good luck kiss; then he puts his feet into his shoes and heads out.

Bucky’s already waiting when Steve arrives at their meeting spot a couple of blocks from Prospect Park, holding a pair of iced coffees, a buffalo plaid blanket thrown over his shoulder. Instead of the grungy, torn-up Hawkeye shirt he’d been wearing earlier, now he’s in a light grey v-neck that looks so soft Steve wants to bury his face in it. The shoulders of his shirt are straining; it’s so tight Steve can see where it bunches around his biceps. He’s wearing a matte grey watch and a bracelet of leather cord wrapped several times around his wrist. It emphasizes just how thick his forearms are.

“Hi,” Bucky says, “I got you—um, you said…” He holds out one of the iced coffees, which Steve takes.

“One pump of simple syrup, a dash of milk,” Steve agrees. “Thanks.” He takes a sip; there’s not quite enough syrup, but he’d rather that than too much. He eyes the blanket. “Um, so—”

“Should we—the sun won’t set for another few hours, but it will be cooler down by the water,” Bucky suggests.

Steve agrees, and they start walking, down through town toward the water. “So—Becca, right?” Steve finally asks. “How old is she?”

“Sixteen,” Bucky tells him. “Pain in my ass, really.”

But when Steve looks over at Bucky, he’s smiling around his straw. “It seems like you guys are really close.”

“Try to be,” Bucky says. He shrugs one shoulder. “It’s easier in the summer, when I’m not teaching.” He looks over at Steve while they wait for a break in the traffic to cross the street into the park, rocking forward on his toes and then back a little. “You got any siblings?”

Steve shakes his head. “Just me,” he says. “I think my mom wanted a big family, but…” How is he supposed to say it? _My mom wanted a big family, but she’s frail and the doctor told her no. But she miscarried twice. But then my dad died before another one could catch._ “But all she got was little ol’ me.”

Bucky eyeballs him. “I hate to break it to you, but ain’t nothing about you is little.”

Blushing, pleased that he hadn’t gone and immediately ruined everything, Steve shakes his iced coffee a little, listening to the ice cubes rattle. “I, um—I drink a lot of milk?” This was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth, which involved a bad case of pneumonia, his mother’s abject refusal to let him go, and a very experimental clinical trial.

Raising his eyebrows, Bucky sips his coffee. “Shit, I gotta start drinking more milk.”

“Right! Right, because you’re so scrawny,” Steve agrees, holding his hands out in an approximation of the width of Bucky’s shoulders.

Bucky laughs, and shifts his coffee from one hand to the other so he can take Steve’s. “Yeah, alright, fair,” he says. “Hey, can I show you something?”

Steve squints at him. He likes Bucky, so far, every vibe he’s gotten off him safe and welcoming, friendly, caring. “I don’t think I’m ready to see your dong,” he says.

Throwing his head back in a laugh, Bucky tugs Steve off the path and over the grass. “Don’t worry,” he scoffs, “my little sister told me it’s bad form to show people your dong on the first date.”

“Did she? How insightful of her.”

“Mm,” Bucky agrees, taking another sip of his coffee and turning sideways to shuffle between two overgrown bushes. “She’s good like that. I learn a lot from that little squirt.”

“Base human decency, even.” Steve follows Bucky in, pausing just on the other side of the bushes. “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Bucky says. He spreads his arms wide, smiling. He’s the most beautiful thing in this whole empty clearing, including the glittering expanse of water, the dappled sunlight, the deserted grass. “Last year those bushes finally grew big enough to hide this place, and it’s been empty ever since.” Letting go of Steve’s hand, he wanders to the middle of the clearing and puts his coffee down on the ground so he can unfold the blanket and take a seat. He pats the spot next to him, looking up at Steve. “We can go have dinner in a little while, but I just thought—it’s such a nice day, you know? I thought we should enjoy it for a little bit first.”


	2. Chapter 2

It probably should say something about Steve that all he can think of while Bucky is kissing him goodnight is, _I cannot fucking wait to tell Sam and Misty about this guy_. In his defense, this is not the only kissing they’ve done on this date, and he’d been very involved in it last time. It’s just that—well—if he doesn’t think about Sam and Misty, he’s going to end up inviting Bucky in, but they’d already talked about the no-dongs-on-the-first-date rule.

Bucky steps in a little closer, placing his foot next to Steve’s on the step he’s standing on, one up from Bucky. Steve sways into him, his hand landing on Bucky’s chest, and finally Bucky nudges him back.

“Much more and I’m going to have to ask to come inside,” he murmurs, rubbing his nose against Steve’s just for a second. He gives him one more kiss and then steps back. “I—I’ll text you.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “That would be…great.”

Bucky grins. His mouth is so pretty, Steve has to restrain himself from kissing him again. “Okay. Good.” He clears his throat. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” Steve feels behind him for the next step, then the next one—and almost eats it, stumbling, flailing his arms out; but before he goes down, Bucky grabs him by the wrists and hauls him upright. By the time Steve’s got his feet back, he’s flat to Bucky’s chest, nose-to-nose with him.

“I just saved your life,” Bucky says.

“Fuck,” Steve says, breathless. “Yeah, you did. Fuck. Thanks.” He kisses Bucky again, because he can’t help himself, because he deserves it. Finally he pulls back, hands on Bucky’s shoulders to physically keep him away. “Okay. Okay, goodnight.”

He turns, this time, to walk up the stairs to his building’s entrance, swipes his fob over the keypad, and pulls open the door. When he turns, Bucky’s still watching him, one foot up on a stair. He smiles, waves; Steve waves back, and lets the door swing shut behind him.

 

Steve manages to sit in his apartment for about six whole minutes, texting with Bucky, rubbing Honey’s belly, before he’s ready to buzz right apart. He pulls his shoes back on and heads for Sam and Misty’s place, three blocks away. By the time he gets there, he and Bucky have plans to meet tomorrow night.

Misty’s holding a glass of wine when she answers the door, in her sweatpants. She raises her eyebrows at him. “You have your phone _in your hand_ and you couldn’t warn us you were coming?” she asks.

“Huh?” Steve looks down at his phone; Bucky’s last text is just a bunch of heart-eye and kiss-face emojis. “Oh, I—sorry. I didn’t even think.”

“You look pleased with yourself,” Misty comments. “Get in here and tell us about the date, then.”

Sam raises his eyebrows at Steve when he steps into the living room, accepting the glass of wine Misty’s poured for him. “You’re vibrating,” he says. “So the date went well—but you’re not at home getting piped into the next dimension, so how well could it really have gone?”

Misty pinches Sam. “Not everyone decides to have sex on the first date, you know.”

“I don’t know,” Sam says. “I’m just so great that they _always_ want to have sex with me right away. Right? Didn’t you?”

Rolling her eyes, Misty turns back to Steve. “Ignore him. Tell me.”

“We were just going to walk around Prospect Park for a bit and then go for dinner,” Steve says. “And then he—I don’t know—he had this spot that he showed me, by the lake. Totally secluded. We ended up…hanging out there for like a couple of hours.”

“Hanging out.” Sam squints at him.

“Yeah, uh—I mean, _making_ out is probably…more accurate…” Steve says.

“And yet,” Sam says, waving a hand around in a grand and-yet-you’re-here gesture.

Steve shrugs. “We went for dinner and he walked me home and I—” why _hadn’t_ he asked Bucky in? “I have to work tomorrow.” He cringes, already knowing he deserves whatever Misty and Sam say.

Even Misty gives him a skeptical look. “What is _wrong_ with you?” she asks while Sam nods. “You have to work tomorrow? So have an extra coffee and take some Advil. But if you liked him—”

“—And you weren’t on some sort of moral high horse about having sex on the first date,” Sam continues, “then why _the fuck_ didn’t you just sleep with him?”

Steve buries his face in his hands. “Because I’m an idiot,” he mumbles into his palms.

“Because you’re an idiot,” Sam agrees.

His phone pings, then, and he picks his head up. “But we’re texting, so…I can’t have _totally_ ruined it…can I?”

The text from Bucky reads: _hope ur asleep by now.. looking forward to seeing u tomorrow gorgeous xx_.

“It would be weird to text back now, right?” Steve asks, passing his phone to Misty.

“Yeah, don’t tell him that instead of boning him you’re hanging out with your friends talking about boning him,” Sam says. “That’s creepy. Anyway, you _did_ say you have to work tomorrow, and you’re not the only one, so, uh. Maybe you should hop on home.”

“Oh,” Steve says, “I, yeah, of course, I—sorry, it’s late.”

“Sam, don’t be mean,” Misty says, elbowing him. “We were going to be awake for like another hour, and Steve is in need.”

Steve gets up. “No, no—Sam’s right, I should go. I should go home and get to bed, probably. Sorry I ambushed you guys.”

“You’re not forgiven,” Sam calls as Misty walks Steve to the door. “Good luck with your new boy. Don’t ever come here again.”

Laughing, Steve gives Misty a hug. “We’ll see you Saturday, right?” she asks. “Just because you’ve got a new boo doesn’t mean you can just bail on game night.”

 

Steve spends pretty much their entire date the next night distracted by how he should have invited Bucky up the night before, and the time goes both too fast and too slow. Still, they’re suddenly outside of Steve’s building again, and even though he already intends to bring Bucky upstairs, they’re kissing on the doorstep once more.

“Okay,” Bucky finally murmurs, pulling back. “I’ve got to get out of here or I’m going to cry when you go inside.”

“Oh.” Steve bites his lip. “I mean—I was going to. You know. If you wanted. You could—you could come in.” When Bucky just stares at him, mouth a little open, Steve clears his throat, ducks his head. “If. If you want. You don’t have to, though.”

Bucky blinks. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, I—I mean, yeah, I, okay. Yeah. Let’s—let’s go in.” Steve looks up at him. “I want to.”

Steve leads the way into the building and up the stairs. Neither of them speaks until Steve has unlocked the door and they’re inside, standing in the foyer that Steve had swept that afternoon.

“So, uh,” Steve says.

“Listen,” says Bucky. He reaches out and runs his fingers, so light, over Steve’s shoulder. “If you don’t want to do this right now…we don’t have to. I don’t want you to—you know, to feel like I’m…pressuring, or anything.”

Looking at him, Steve can’t do anything but start to laugh at how utterly absurd that is. “Shit,” he cackles, “oh, _shit_. That’s—that’s not—” He reaches for Bucky, trying to quit laughing as he leans in to kiss him again. Bucky’s hand comes to rest on his waist, hesitant, like he’s not sure that he’s allowed. “You think I’m acting weird, huh?” He traces a finger up the line of Bucky’s jaw. “All night I’ve been trying to distract myself from how bad I screwed up last night, letting you go home.”

“Oh,” Bucky says again, and licks his lips. “Great. Okay then.” He hums when Steve kisses him this time, tips his head into it. Suddenly, he pulls back. “Wait—screwed up last night?”

“I should have asked you to come in last night,” Steve explains. “Even though I had to work today.”

“What about your no-dongs-on-the-first-date rule?”

Steve cocks his head. “ _My_ rule? You brought that up! Remember? You said Becca said—”

Tipping his head back, Bucky groans. “ _Becca_ , that little—meddling with my love life _again_ ,” he mutters. “I’ll get her back for this one. I swear, I’m going to—”

Steve kisses him, then, spreading his hands over the thick muscle of Bucky’s back. It’s just that he doesn’t particularly need to talk about Bucky’s teenage sister, not now, not while they’re probably (hopefully) just a few minutes from taking their clothes off. Bucky leans into him, his big hands spanning Steve’s lower back, sending goosebumps up his spine.

Then, just as Steve’s about to pull away so he can take his shirt off, maybe lead Bucky over to the couch, something runs into the back of his knee, and he realizes he never told Bucky about Honey. “Uh,” he says, reaching back and groping for Honey’s collar in the dim, determined to do it and keep his body between the dog and Bucky in case he’s not a fan. “Um, I forgot—I, my dog—”

“You have a dog?” Bucky asks, one hand still low on Steve’s back, the other sliding back to his hip. “Can I meet it?”

With two fingers between Honey’s collar and her body, Steve can feel her trembling. “Yeah, I—she’s shy, though,” he tells Bucky, and pulls back to reach for the lightswitch. When he flips it, Honey whines, nudging her face into the back of Steve’s leg again. He watches as Bucky crouches. “Her name is Honey.”

“Hi, Honey,” Bucky murmurs, his voice softer than Steve has heard it yet. He peeks around Steve’s leg, his head low, and reaches one hand out, palm up. “A shy pitbull, huh? That’s rare, isn’t it, girl?”

Honey peeks back at Bucky, pawing at Steve’s calf; she looks at his hand, his face, and then up at Steve. He lowers himself into a seat on the floor next to her. “She likes to buck stereotypes, don’t you, Honey?”

Whining loudly, Honey clambers into his lap, and Steve runs a hand from the crown of her head all the way down her back, her blue-grey fur warm under his palm. “You’re _beautiful_ , aren’t you?” Bucky tells her, shifting into a tailor’s seat. Wary, Honey sticks her head forward, her nose twitching in the direction of his hand. After a second she places her muzzle in Bucky’s palm, her ears slowly perking up as he scritches gently under her chin. “Yeah, hi, Honey. Hi, beautiful. Who’s a good good girl?”

Steve pets at her favorite spot, right between her shoulder blades, and after a minute she stops trembling. “Thanks,” Steve says.

Bucky pauses in scratching her to look up at him, but Honey actually reaches out and paws at his arm, and he laughs and starts up again. “For what?”

“I don’t—I don’t know. For, for taking the time to meet her, I guess. She doesn’t like it when she doesn’t know who’s around.”

“Aw,” Bucky coos, still speaking in babytalk to Honey, “well, neither do I, huh, sweetheart? I can’t blame you for that. Thanks for trusting me, baby.” He makes kissing sounds at her and laughs when she licks at his palm. “You’re not really shy, are you? Just smart. You shouldn’t just go trusting strange men in your home, should you? No, you shouldn’t.”

Sitting on the floor in his front hall, Steve stares at Bucky, this hulk of a man turned to goo over his dog. He seems to have forgotten all about the original purpose of coming up to Steve’s apartment, and Steve finds himself wanting him all the more for it.

Bucky looks up at him, then, catching him staring. “What?” he asks, his hands cradling Honey’s whole head.

Steve leans across the space between them, and Bucky leans in too, and then they’re kissing again, slow, their knees bumping. Bucky puts a hand at the back of Steve’s neck, traces his tongue along the inside of Steve’s upper lip.

Honey bonks her head against their chins; Steve almost bites his own tongue off. “Honey, go to bed,” he mumbles, barely waiting for Honey to climb off of him before he shuffles forward and plants himself on Bucky’s lap.

“Does that just…work?” Bucky asks, like it’s only half a thought, his hands sneaking up Steve’s shirt. “Did she just go to bed?”

“I mean, I had to train her to do it,” Steve explains. He wiggles, trying to get Bucky to move his hands, mapping the span of his wide shoulders with his own.

Humming low in his throat, Bucky squeezes him. “Does it work on you, too?”

“It might,” Steve says, laughing. “You should try it.”

“Steve,” says Bucky, grinning into his mouth, “let’s go to bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [reblog the chapter post please and thank you! <3](https://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com/post/171983184687/update-everything-magical-rooonilwaazlib)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here there be porn, in case anyone wants that warning!

It must still be early when Steve wakes, the sun slanting into his bedroom and right into his eyes at a deep angle. It’s also hot, oppressively so, the sheet bunched around his ankles. Bucky’s thick arm is heavy across his waist, but they’re not touching otherwise.

Steve reaches for his water glass, trying not to disturb Bucky as he pours the whole thing down his throat. It’s warm, but Steve’s so thirsty it doesn’t matter. A few drops miss his mouth and slide down his cheek and into his ear, but he ignores them, leaning over again to put the glass back on the bedside table. Then he slumps back into bed, throwing an arm over his face to block the sun.

It’s only a couple of minutes before Bucky breathes in sharply, then out, his hand flattening on Steve’s ribcage. “Mm,” he says, and pulls on Steve, bringing him close enough to press his face into the sticky-warm spot between Steve’s neck and shoulder. “You up?”

Steve turns into him, eyes still shut, mouthing at Bucky’s skin until he turns his face and they’re kissing. Bucky hums again, his hand sliding up Steve’s side and then back down to his hip, his thigh, pulling his leg up and over his waist. Already breathing hard, Steve presses into him.

“Take that as a yes,” Bucky mumbles against his lips, fingers digging into Steve’s ass. He rocks his own hips forward, the two of them already sweating, each movement slicker than the last.

“Oh,” Steve says, tipping his head; Bucky leans over him to bite at his throat. He gasps; it's so hot he feels like he can barely handle it, like it makes everything that much more intense. “ _Fuck_ , oh—”

He reaches between them, wrapping his hand around both of their cocks. Bucky rumbles a moan into his skin. He’s big, bigger than Steve, big enough that Steve can still feel where he’d been inside him last night. Steve squeezes him, squeezes both of them. Bucky grabs at him, greedy, one hand on his chest, the fingers of his other rubbing at Steve’s asshole.

It’s all so much, too much, and Steve can’t stop himself when he comes, suddenly, between them. Bucky groans, gripping him all the tighter, and Steve jerks him through his orgasm.

They lie there, panting, for several long minutes, the sun making Steve’s back feel almost like it’s on fire. Finally he runs his hand up Bucky’s chest, his shoulder, and sits up a little. He’s sore all over, pleasantly so, and he props himself on his elbows and rolls his neck. When he looks over at Bucky, he’s watching him without shame, his dark eyes trailing down Steve’s body and back up.

“You want to go for breakfast with me?” Bucky asks.

Even lying in bed next to him, covered in his come, Steve’s stomach still does a weird little flip. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.” Then there comes a scratching at the door. They both look that direction. “Can I bring Honey? She—it sounds like she needs a walk.”

They shower together to save time—as they’d gotten out of bed both of their stomachs had announced their emptiness, and when Steve went to feed Honey her breakfast she made it known that she was ready to go out, too—but they get a little distracted, and by the time they leave the apartment it’s almost ten. Honey finds the first patch of grass she can, and then they walk on, hand in hand, to a diner that Bucky knows with a patio where they can sit with the dog.

It’s hard, almost, to look at Bucky, knowing how he looks in the grip of orgasm. Twice Bucky catches him not listening, too busy staring at his mouth. Honey curls up under the table between them, and Steve knows he must have gotten a good one because she’s sitting on his feet with her head resting on Bucky’s. Her tail thumps Steve’s shin as she wags it.

After breakfast they walk back to Steve’s place, where Bucky had parked his bike the night before. “I can’t believe you don’t wear a leather jacket,” Steve says as he watches Bucky unlock his helmet box. “That’s bad motorbike wardrobe.”

“It’s _hot_ , Steve,” Bucky tells him as he sticks the key into the ignition. He waves Steve closer. “C’mere and give me a kiss.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but goes, leaning across the bike and letting Bucky kiss the breath out of him. “At least you make Becca wear hers,” he says.

“Exactly.” Bucky leans over and gives Honey a big kiss on the forehead. “Bye, Honey.” He stands up again, chucks Steve under the chin. “Bye, honey. Text me.”

 

Game night is at Sam and Misty’s place this week. Steve and Bucky arrange to meet beforehand, at the ice cream shop so Steve can bring over a couple of pints.

He’s just closing up shop, the evening settling in, wiping down the counters and mopping the floor when Bucky arrives. Bucky stands on the welcome mat just inside the door and looks at the shiny wet tile. “I’ll…just wait over here,” he says. He’s holding a bouquet of sunflowers.

“Five minutes,” Steve tells him. “How was your day?”

Bucky shrugs and sticks his free hand in his pocket. “Did my laundry. Hung out with Becca. So, not terrible. What about you?”

Waving a hand at the shop, Steve flattens caramel cookie dough ice cream into a pint carton and leans into the freezer for another scoop. “I got here at one and it’s been pretty full on ever since,” he says. “Saturday night’s dessert rush is always a little crazy.”

“Have you had a chance to eat dinner?” Bucky asks, sounding concerned.

Steve shakes his head and caps the pint carton. “Luke and Claire usually bring food. I’ll eat when we get there.”

“Right.” Steve looks up to see Bucky lick his lips, shaking the sunflowers back and forth in his hand.

“Are you nervous?” Steve asks before he can stop himself.

Bucky goes pink and Steve bites his lip, charmed. “Steve, you’re taking me to game night with a bunch of people who already know each other and care about you. I’ll be the odd man out, and they won’t be inclined to trust me,” he says. “I think I’m allowed to be a little nervous.”

Steve caps the carton of mint Oreo and pulls a paper bag from under the counter to pack them up. Then he comes around the counter and walks over to Bucky to kiss him hello. “I understand,” he tells him. “But I don’t think you have to be worried too much. I’ll be there, and so will Honey. That’s _two_ whole people who already like you.”

Smiling, Bucky wraps an arm around Steve’s waist. “Thanks.” He backs out the door when Steve nudges him that way. “Unfortunately, one of those two people doesn’t speak English—but, well, I guess it’s better than nothing.”

They swing by Steve’s place to pick up Honey and then head over to Sam and Misty’s apartment, holding hands. The sun is tipping toward the horizon, and Honey prances around, rolling in all the grass she can find, tongue hanging out.

They’re the last to arrive at Sam and Misty’s. Steve lets Bucky give Honey a couple of scritches for strength before he unclips her leash; she bounds toward Luke, who catches her in midair and lets her lick his face.

By the time Steve and Bucky kick off their shoes, everyone is looking up from their cards. Even Matt has his face turned toward them. “Everybody, this is Bucky,” Steve says, speaking up just a little because Honey’s tail is whapping loudly on Luke’s arm. Bucky waves. “Bucky, this is—well, everybody.” He starts on his left, moving clockwise. “Luke, Misty, Claire, Matt, Tony, and Sam.”

“Listen,” Tony hisses into the quiet, “all I’m saying is: he’s dating a guy named _Bucky_ and you expect me to be on my best behavior? Do you even _know_ me, Wilson?”

“It’s short for Buchanan,” Bucky says.

“Come _on_ , Wilson,” Tony groans. “Buchanan! _Buchanan_.”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He loves Tony, usually, sort of, but if he doesn’t shut up soon Steve might have to silence him himself. “You can call me James if it makes you feel better,” Bucky says blandly, like he gets this a lot. “Buchanan is my middle name.”

“ _Wilson_ ,” Tony says, but before he can continue Matt interrupts.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky,” he practically yells. “Don’t be put off by Tony, here. He’s just an idiot.”

“Am not,” Tony replies. “I’m actually a genius. I—”

“ _We know_.” Claire rolls her eyes and shifts over on the couch. “Come have a seat, Bucky. Once you’re sitting down, Tony will forget all about you.”

While Bucky settles in between Misty and Claire, Steve ducks into the kitchen to put the ice cream in the freezer. He fills a vase and sticks the sunflowers into it, then grabs four or five pieces of pizza and uncaps a couple of beers. By the time he returns to the living room, everyone’s talking again, and Bucky is laughing at something Misty is telling him. Honey is stretched across Luke and Misty’s laps, and she’s just long enough that her nose is flat to Bucky’s leg. His hand is on top of her head, one of her ears being rubbed between his fingers. Steve can see her lick his pant leg every few seconds.

Leaning over the coffee table, Steve passes Bucky a beer, then nudges the last seat—a tufted leather ottoman—closer to the coffee table so he can eat. He’s starving, now he thinks about it, and he folds a piece of pizza in half and stuffs most of it into his mouth. Luke asks Bucky about his work, and Steve sits in silence while he eats, listening to them talk.

He’s so busy watching Bucky’s mouth move that he almost misses when Bucky leans over and snipes a bit of pepperoni off his pizza. Steve glares at him, but Bucky just grins and feeds the bit to Honey.

“ _Hey_ ,” Steve protests. “She gets her own food! Don’t feed her mine.”

Bucky laughs and leans down to kiss Honey’s forehead. “Will it make her sick?” he asks.

“I—no.”

He reaches forward and grabs another piece of pepperoni. Honey watches his face, her eyes big, nose twitching in the direction of the pepperoni. “Well then,” he says, “how could I possibly say no to this face?”

Steve tries to keep glaring at him, but Bucky’s face is so sweet, his hands so gentle on Honey’s fur that he struggles. Then Claire frames Bucky’s face in her hands and says, “yeah, Steve, how can you possibly say no to this face?”

 

This time Steve had remembered to shut the shades before they went to sleep, so it’s late when they wake. Steve yawns into the warm spot between Bucky’s shoulder and his neck, grinning when it makes Bucky squirm and grab his hair.

“Quit it,” Bucky mumbles, his voice half a laugh, but Steve just mouths at his skin. Bucky grips harder at Steve’s hair, dragging him back by it, and Steve gasps at the lightning that rolls through him. “I _said:_ quit it.”

Breathless, Steve blinks at him, his brain completely void of words. He drags his lower lip between his teeth, hoping to focus himself, but all it does is make that lightning spark up again, sharp, firing on his lips his scalp his nipples. Bucky narrows his eyes at him and tightens his hand in Steve’s hair.

Steve’s whole body jerks, and he scratches his nails over Bucky’s chest trying to find something to hold onto. Bucky catches his hand and rolls him onto his back, his bulk trapping Steve against the mattress, one hand pressing his down, the other still using his hair to keep his chin tilted up. Steve pants, every nerve ending singing, and goes still under Bucky.

“So it’s like that,” Bucky says, looking down at Steve with heavy-lidded eyes. His voice is deep, sleep-rough, and his dick presses hot and hardening against Steve’s thigh. “You like this?”

Steve’s mouth is dry, and his _yes_ comes out as a croak. Looking thoughtful, Bucky leans in, pressing his lips to Steve’s in a deliberate, well-aimed movement. Steve lets out a shaky breath, and it takes him a moment to notice that he’s curled one leg up and around Bucky’s waist. Bucky slips his tongue into Steve’s mouth, slow, and his hand tugs Steve’s head around to a different angle, rocking his hips slowly against Steve’s.

Gasping, Steve whines into Bucky’s mouth; Bucky lets go of his hand to reach down and hitch Steve’s leg higher around him, to grope at his thigh, his ass. Steve shakes, feeling pinned even though both of his hands are free, letting Bucky move him however he likes.

They’re both sweating and out of breath when Bucky finally sits up, releasing Steve’s hair. Steve doesn’t move, lying there looking up at Bucky kneeling over him, big hands proprietary on Steve’s thighs. Bucky reaches behind him and unhooks Steve’s ankles from his waist. “Turn over,” he says.

Steve scrambles to do as he’s told, feeling like a recently large teenager again, barely knowing how to move his limbs without hurting anybody. Bucky catches one of his ankles and guides it down outside his knee so he doesn’t kick him, then runs his hands up the backs of Steve’s legs, his thighs, over his ass and up his back.

His lips press briefly to the back of Steve’s neck, then his breath in Steve’s ear. “Yeah?” Bucky murmurs.

“Yeah,” Steve replies, swallowing, turning his head to the side. Bucky leans closer to press his mouth imprecisely to Steve’s. They kiss like that for a moment; then Bucky slips his hand back down Steve’s side, into the vee of his hips, to give his cock a slow, loose jerk. Steve lets out a broken moan. He can feel Bucky’s calves against the insides of his own, the brush of his ankle bones, strangely intimate.

Dragging his lower lip between his teeth again, Steve presses his face into his pillow, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by Bucky all around him, taking control. As soon as he’s down, Bucky’s hands flatten on his hips, hooks his chin over Steve’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, soft, his voice like a secret. He kisses at the spot where Steve’s earlobe meets his jaw.

Steve swallows before turning his face out of the pillow. “Hi.”

Bucky doesn’t ask him anything, doesn’t speak at all, and Steve turns back into the pillow. He runs his hand up Steve’s flank to his shoulder and back down, settling at his waist. He does it again, and Steve lets his breath follow, inhaling until Bucky’s hand arrives at his shoulder and exhaling as it falls away again.

After a minute Steve realizes he’s shaking. It’s not as if this is the first time he’s liked getting tugged around a little. It’s just—he’s never wanted it so soon after meeting someone. He tenses up, trying to make himself stop trembling. Bucky’s hand stops moving, just under his ribcage, and he murmurs something into Steve’s scalp.

Finally Steve stops shaking; and that’s when he hears what Bucky’s telling him. “You’re okay,” he’s murmuring, “it’s okay, you’re fine, you’re just, just fine.” Steve takes a breath. “Let’s go for a walk, okay, baby? Let’s take Honey out for a walk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [reblog the chapter post thanks babes <3](https://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com/post/172218421677/new-chapter-everything-magical-archive-of-our)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen so basically you should just assume that there's porn in pretty much every chapter okie dokie thanks babes

By the time Steve and Bucky and Honey are back at that secluded spot in Prospect Park, Steve thinks they might be past what had happened in bed that morning. They’d stopped for coffee, held hands, chatted about their schedules for the next week while they walked.

Honey trots around the clearing and brings Steve back a stick, which he tosses for her. As she chases it down, he sips his coffee.

“So,” Bucky says. Steve’s stomach curls up on itself. “Can we talk? About this morning.”

Steve leans down to take the stick from Honey and toss it again. “Uh, yeah, I, I guess we should.”

“Okay.” He can hear Bucky’s fingers tapping on his own thigh. “You—you seemed to be into it, you know? I guess I’m just wondering what—well, what happened, is all.”

Sucking on his straw, Steve lets the chilled coffee settle in his mouth. He’d skipped the sweetener and just gone with a little milk; it tastes round, smooth. “I was,” he admits, and takes the stick from Honey again. She licks at the back of his hand, and he lets her, scratches her chin for a second before straightening up and throwing the stick again. He glances at Bucky; he’s looking back at him, serious. His face is open, concerned. “I just—we haven’t really been seeing each other for too long. And I—I didn’t expect to, I don’t know. To want it so soon.”

“Have you—done that kind of stuff before?”

“Yeah.” Steve watches Honey rolling around in the grass, tongue hanging out, her stick discarded on the ground next to her. “But I—it’s a trust thing, you know? I gotta really…really _like_ the person, know they’re not going to—you know. I just never, you know, I’ve never liked it so quickly.” Steve shrugs, finally turning away from Honey to look at Bucky.

Bucky’s face is serious, his eyes steady on Steve.

Steve swallows. “And I—we’re not—not that serious, I know,” he says, and pats his own thigh. Immediately, Honey rolls up onto her feet and touches her nose to his palm. He looks away from Bucky so that he can lean down and clip her leash back on her. “Sorry. I’ll—I’ll see you around, Bucky.”

He’s most of the way past Bucky in the direction of the gap between the bushes when Bucky grabs his arm. “Wait, _what?_ ” he asks. Turning back, not sure what to expect, Steve tightens his grip on Honey’s leash. “You’re leaving? For good?”

“I—” Honey nudges Steve’s knee. He takes a breath. “I—I was going to? I guess. I just—thought you wouldn’t—”

Bucky gives him something between a glare and a pout. “You thought I wouldn’t what? I wouldn’t want it?” he asks. Steve bites his lip, and Bucky’s hand slides from his elbow to his wrist. He leans closer, slides the point of his nose over the ridge of Steve’s, broken in some schoolyard brawl a decade ago. “Listen, you want to take me home? Now that we’re on the same page I want to try again.”

 

Steve can barely breathe, can barely move, can barely _think_ —Bucky’s hands press him down a little further, his knees sliding on the sheet an inch further from one another. He grips tighter at the headboard, because he was told not to let it go, because if he stops thinking about it he might forget and reach back, pull Bucky closer.

The fronts of Bucky’s thighs are pressed against the back of Steve’s. It’s about eighteen billion degrees, sweat soaking their skin. Bucky’s in him, on him, everything about Steve’s body given up to him. One of his hands is burning the top of Steve’s thigh, just below where he’s bent at the hip; his other hand is in Steve’s hair, pulling his head back by it, forcing his spine into one long arc. Steve doesn’t hurt, not his scalp or his back—between the heat and the slow slide of Bucky inside of him, he’s one whole live wire of pleasure.

“Fuck,” Steve gasps as the head of Bucky’s cock trips over his prostate. “God, _fuck_.”

Bucky leans close, his mouth tickling the shell of Steve’s ear. His chest against Steve’s back is slick, lighting him on fire. All of his skin feels like a sunburn, like he’s lying on the beach on a still day. The air in his lungs feels like soup, hot and thick. “You’re so pretty like this,” Bucky murmurs, and bites at Steve’s earlobe. He tips his head into it, lets Bucky at him; and Bucky takes the invitation, scraping his teeth over the skin of Steve’s neck. “You feel so good, baby, so good for me.”

Steve lowers his shoulders, tightens his hands again on the headboard. He’s so close, all of his skin a heat map of pleasure, the points where Bucky’s touching him searing white, the rest of him barely less than that. Bucky’s fingers slide from his hip to his cock, gently trace a line up the vein on the underside of it.

“You close, sugar?” Bucky rumbles, his fist closing on the head of Steve’s dick. “You gonna give it up for me? Come on, sweetheart, let me see it.”

It hits Steve so hard he doesn’t even know if he’s breathing anymore, every inch of his body lighting up as he comes. For a second he thinks he’s lost all his senses; but then Bucky groans in his ear, hauls him up by his hair, his other hand yanking at Steve’s wrist until he lets go of the headboard. The world spins, righting itself so Steve finds himself bowed up in Bucky’s lap. Bucky’s hands are bruising on the arcs of his hipbones, holding him still as he grinds in deep, riding out his own orgasm.

Finally, his grip loosens, his breath slowing against Steve’s neck. They both wilt, Steve about to tip forward and collapse in the mattress when Bucky’s hand flattens to his chest, holding him close. Bucky rolls his hips one last time, and it isn’t clear whether it’s he or Steve or both of them who shudders.

They fall apart, Steve forward into the pillows, Bucky sideways across the bed. It’s too hot to touch, now, too hot to move; but when Bucky’s hand lands on his ankle, not holding, just touching, Steve hums and lets him do it.

Neither of them lasts very long before it’s too hot and sticky to keep lying there. Steve rolls over, grimacing and yanking at the sheet until it unsticks from his stomach. Beside him Bucky groans; when Steve glances over he’s using the sheet to fan himself weakly. “I’m dying,” Bucky mumbles, “It’s so _hot_. I’m fuckin’ dying.”

“That’s a shame,” Steve replies. “I was going to see if you wanted to shower with me, but if you’re dead…”

Immediately, Bucky sits up, clambers off the bed. “I’m alive,” he announces, “I’m alive, let’s go. Let’s use cool water, though, okay?”

Steve gets up with a groan. Bucky catches him as he stands, cupping his face in his hands and kissing him slow. Steve sways into him, his muscles pulling, reminding him he’s not really up for much more than this. Pulling back, he nudges Bucky, and they stumble to the bathroom together.

Even with how tired Steve is, it’s hard to keep his hands off Bucky once they’re crowded into his little shower together. It’s made worse when Bucky guides him under the spray of water and digs his fingers into Steve’s scalp, massaging a little. Eyes shut, Steve reaches out to flatten his hand on Bucky’s chest, because if he doesn’t he might fall over.

Bucky’s mouth drags up his shoulder; Steve blindly turns his head in to Bucky’s. “How are you feeling?” Bucky asks, not kissing him, not quite.

Opening his eyes so he can chase Bucky’s mouth, glaring when Bucky evades him, Steve sighs, tips his head into Bucky’s strong fingers, and takes a moment to assess. “Sore.”

Bucky puts a thumb under his jaw and steers his head around so that they’re nose-to-nose. “Good sore, or bad sore?”

“Good sore,” Steve says, and this time when he leans in to kiss Bucky he doesn’t stop him. “Definitely good sore.”

Bucky grins at him and winks, then scrubs his hands through Steve’s hair again and reaches for the soap. “Good.”

 

The evening is just starting to draw down, the open front of the shop letting in the gentle cool breeze, when Bucky arrives three nights later, trailing Becca and another teenage girl. He walks past the shop’s patio, waving at Steve, and holds the door for them.

“Hi, Steve,” Becca says as she walks in, then looks at the two people sitting at the counter, who Steve’s been chatting with for the last hour. “Nat! Clint! You guys are _never_ early!”

The grin on Bucky’s face has vanished; when Steve looks at him he’s glaring at the two people. “Nat,” he says. “Clint. We said eight o’clock, didn’t we?”

“That is what we told you, yeah,” the woman says, wrapping her red hair around one finger. “Clint wanted ice cream early.”

The man turns to her. “Throw me under the bus, why don’t you,” he grumbles, “like you weren’t ready to come out here an hour ago too.”

“I know what you’re doing,” Bucky tells them, “I know what you’re doing and because of that, we’re not friends anymore.” He follows Becca and the other girl to the counter, leaning across it and gesturing for Steve to do the same. He kisses him, holding onto the straps of Steve’s apron. “ _Save me_ ,” he whispers.

“Bucky’s been spending every night at Steve’s,” Becca says to Nat and Clint, and Bucky gives Steve’s apron a tug, his head falling to Steve’s chest. “He told me he hasn’t been home in like a week.”

“Wow,” the woman, Nat, says. Steve pats at Bucky’s hair, trying to ignore his own blush now that she’s looking at him appraisingly.

Becca tugs on Bucky’s arm. “Bucky, let him go,” she says. “I’d like to pay him to serve me ice cream, but he can’t do that when you’re holding onto him like that.”

With one last desperate look, Bucky lets go of him, and Steve smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring, not nervous way before turning to Becca. “What’ll it be, kiddo?” he asks. From the corner of his eye he watches Bucky lean close to the couple and begin a panicky-looking whispered conversation.

Becca exchanges a look with her friend. “We’re sixteen, you know,” she says. “Can I please have a scoop of cookie dough and a scoop of caramel maple in a cup? With gummy bears.”

Steve gets to scooping, trying to ignore the horrified stare that Bucky’s aiming at his friends. Becca’s friend—Shuri, she introduces herself as—orders a cone of goat cheese caramelized pear and gives Steve a bright grin when she first tastes it. They claim a pair of barstools next to Clint just as Bucky throws up his hands and heads for the farthest freezer. Steve follows.

“Everything okay?”

Bucky glances down from the menu above Steve’s head. His whole face is pink. “Did they even tell you they knew me?” Shaking his head, Steve holds up a cone. Bucky nods. “We agreed to meet here at eight. They decided to come by early so they could meet you without me interfering.”

Steve looks over his shoulder, the back of his neck heating up as Nat and Clint wave at him, not bothering at all to pretend they weren’t watching them. Even Becca and Shuri are spectating, whispering behind their hands. “They seem nice,” Steve says.

“They _are_ ,” Bucky grumbles. “That doesn’t make them any less assholes.” He sighs and sticks his hands into his pockets. “How’s the goat cheese pear?”

“You want a taster?” Steve asks, reaching for a tiny wood spoon. “Or you can ask Shuri what she thinks—she seemed to like it.”

Bucky waves him off, turning and heading back toward his group. “How’s that one, Shuri?” he asks. “Let me try it.”

Shuri gives him a suspicious glare, her dark eyes narrowing at him. “One lick,” she says, holding up one finger like Bucky doesn’t know the number. “ _One_.”

Leaning over her shoulder and sticking his tongue out, Bucky wraps his hand around hers, guiding the cone toward himself while she watches. At the last second, he pulls his tongue back and opens his mouth wide, taking a huge bite out of it, nearly half of the scoop. “Thanks,” he says while she gasps in betrayal. “ _Shit._ Cold.”

“Serves you right!” Shuri says, turning on her stool and—Steve can’t see what she does, but Bucky jerks back, laughing and glowering at her, so she must have kicked him in the shin or something. “You jackass! You owe me half your ice cream.”

“Pass it over,” Steve tells her, taking her cone and adding another scoop to the top.

Shuri sticks a gloating tongue out at Bucky, who shrugs uncaringly. “See? I told you you’d like him,” Bucky says. Steve grins and tries not to blush. “Steve, baby, honey, sweet thing—” Bucky winks at Steve while all of his friends make a mix of horrified faces and retching sounds behind him—“I’ll take a scoop of that, please, darlin’. And a scoop of that lavender honey.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for taking ages to update!! i've been super busy with work and life and stuff. but umm yeah here you go have fun love u xoxo

Steve sits on the end of his bed, staring at the saddlebag that Bucky had left with him. Grabbing his phone, he taps to Bucky’s text chain—his name just a series of alternating eggplant emojis and sparkly hearts, edited by Bucky himself—and sends: _how am I supposed to fit everything I’m going to need in this? It’s TINY_.

It’s only a moment before Bucky’s reply arrives: _we won’t be going out much so u dont need to bring a lot. just lube and a toothbrush sweetheart :)_

Rolling his eyes, Steve throws the requested items into the bag, padding them with a couple of shirts and underpants, his cell phone charger, and his deodorant. They’re only heading up to the Hamptons for the weekend, so he shouldn’t need more than this.

It had been Bucky’s idea: Shuri’s parents prefer the mountains in summer, leaving their Hamptons villa empty for select few friends they trust, including, apparently, Bucky “Eggplant-Heart-Eggplant-Heart-Eggplant-Heart” Barnes. There will be fireworks this weekend, of course, for Independence Day, and since it’s Steve’s birthday too it seems like the perfect time to get out of the city for a few days.

Steve had dropped off Honey with his mother the night before and stayed for his birthday dinner, just the two of them. She hadn’t asked to meet Bucky, though her questions about him otherwise seemed endless. He isn’t sure if she doesn’t want to know, or doesn’t want to pressure him, or frankly just doesn’t think he’ll last.

The thing is, he wants to introduce them—they’ve been together a whole six weeks already—but neither Steve nor Bucky seems to want to disturb the precarious bliss of their summer romance. Steve’s met Becca, of course, and now Shuri—who’s been Becca’s best friend since before their births, and is as good as a sister, Bucky says—but not Bucky’s parents. He also hasn’t met Shuri’s older brother yet, who’s a couple of years older than he and Bucky.

Steve’s phone lights up again. _Im outside :*_ , it reads, and Steve clips the saddlebag shut and pulls on the leather jacket he normally wears in the fall.

When he gets outside, Bucky is leaning against his bike, holding two helmets. His sweatshirt hides most of his bulk. “We’re lucky,” he says once Steve’s kissed him hello, “it’s cloudy today. Won’t be so painfully hot on the ride.” He hands over one of the helmets, watching as Steve pulls it on and fiddles with the strap. “Here, I’ll—”

Steve tips his head back so Bucky can run the strap through the double D rings. When he’s done, Bucky leans in, kisses at Steve’s jugular, right below the strap. Steve pinches him gently on the hip in response. “How long is the ride?”

Bucky shrugs, pulling on his own helmet. “Couple hours, maybe?” he says. “We’ll stop on the way—I think I’m running a bit low on gas, and then we can stretch our legs.”

They get on the bike, Bucky taking a moment to wiggle his ass against Steve’s crotch. He laughs when Steve pinches him again, reaching back and pulling Steve’s thigh flat against his, revving the engine with his other hand. Already Steve’s ready to get to where they’re supposed to be going.

 

They stop for gas just past Long Island. Between the engine’s vibrations and Bucky’s body so close between his legs, Steve’s been halfway hard since Bucky opened up the throttle as they pulled onto the highway. He has to get off the bike first to let Bucky off, and he pulls off his leather jacket, trying to cool off a little.

Bucky, of course, is graceful dismounting, and sexy when he pulls off his helmet and runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair. He gives Steve a once-over and a painfully obvious smirk as he uncaps the gas tank. “You want to run in while I do this?” he asks, pointing to the shop. “I’ll have to whiz, too, but you look like you could use some water.”

Steve stops at the water fountain on his way in, then ducks into the bathroom. It’s empty. He takes a leak, washes his hands, splashes some water on the back of his neck where he’s hottest, and waits.

It’s lucky for him that Bucky is the next person to enter the bathroom, because he really doesn’t take too long to confirm that before grabbing the front of his hoodie and hauling him into a kiss. Bucky stumbles, seeming stunned for a second before his arms wrap hard around Steve’s waist, hands greedy on him. Steve grabs at him, his ass, his shoulder, pouring as much sex appeal into the kiss as he knows how to give.

Bucky rocks his hips forward against Steve’s, and groans—and Steve pulls back, even though he doesn’t want to, even though he’d happily stand in this disgusting gas station bathroom all day if it meant an orgasm at the end. But he’s got to get Bucky back, somehow, just a little, for how long and torturous this ride is.

Breathless, he takes a step back, then two, steeling himself against the betrayed pout Bucky puts on. “Hurry up,” he says. “The sooner we get back to riding, the sooner we get there.”

 

Their speed ticks up noticeably when they get back on the highway, and Steve flattens his hand to the inner part of Bucky’s thigh in recognition. Bucky twitches his wrist, revving the engine a little, and Steve suppresses a squirm.

The house that they pull up to is…not really a house, actually; it’s more like a palace. Steve gets off the bike and stares up at it, feeling very, very small. Bucky puts the saddlebags down on the gravel next to Steve’s feet and comes around in front of him, his hands under Steve’s chin tipping his head back so he can work on his helmet. The building looks to be a full four storeys, and Steve can’t see the ends of it without having to turn his head. The brick is covered in ivy, the shutters painted dark green. There are hedgerows.

“Are we in the right place?” Steve asks while Bucky pulls his helmet off of him.

“Hm?” Bucky glances behind him at the house. “Yeah. Shuri and T’Challa’s parents are kind of, you know, rich.”

He looks totally nonchalant when Steve looks at him, threading both helmets over his arm and picking up the saddlebags. “ _Kind of rich?_ ” Steve asks. “Bucky, _my ice cream_ is kind of rich. This—” he waves a hand at the house behind them—”is not the same.”

“Babe,” Bucky says, rubbing Steve’s arm. “Don’t sell yourself short. Your ice cream is very rich.” He turns and starts up the porch steps.

Staring after him, Steve finally kicks it into gear and follows. “That’s not the point. That is _so_ not the point, Bucky Barnes, and don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m fucking saying.”

At the top of the steps, Bucky turns and shoves the saddlebags into Steve’s hands. “Can you hold these for a second, sweetheart?” he asks, and sticks a hand into his pocket, pulling out a shiny new set of keys. “Come on, I want to show you our bed.”

Their footsteps actually echo in the front hall, the white marble floor giving way to a purple-carpeted staircase, the elegant curve of it leading up to a wide upper balcony. It’s sort of a blessing, actually, that Bucky doesn’t let him gape for too long, instead grabbing his hand and dragging him up the stairs and down the hall. “This is where I stay every time I come up here with T’Challa,” he says, leading the way into a big bedroom with light grey walls and a bed that’s probably about four times as big as it needs to be. Bay windows open out to the back garden, a long lush field that leads to the ocean. Steve walks over to it; just below the window there’s a pool. Bucky’s warmth draws up against his back. “Nice, huh?”

“I didn’t bring my bathing suit,” Steve says, under the weight of the luxury around him.

Both of Bucky’s hands slide into his back pockets, his voice low against Steve’s neck. “You don’t need one. It’s just us here.”

All of the arousal from earlier slams back through him, knocking insistently on all of the nerve endings in Steve’s body. Suddenly he’s hot in places he hadn’t been a second before; he turns and sways into Bucky, pushing his tongue into his mouth almost before their lips touch. Bucky makes a surprised, thrilled sound, and squeezes him hard around the waist.

Steve clutches at him, shivers chasing each other down his spine. Bucky’s hands grab at him, pull at his clothes, and Steve stumbles as Bucky presses at him. His shoulders hit the window, glass warm through his t-shirt. “You can’t even imagine how bad I wanted you on that bike,” Bucky murmurs into Steve’s neck.

Gasping, Steve tips his head back. “Yeah,” he replies, “yeah, I think I can.”

Bucky laughs, low, his voice deep against Steve’s skin. “I’ll make it up to you.” He bites at Steve’s collarbone, one hand sliding up from Steve’s hip to his chest. His other hand pulls one of Steve’s legs around his waist, groping at his ass as he does. “I want your dick in my mouth.” Steve shudders again, his nails scraping at Bucky’s scalp. “You gonna let me, baby? Sweetheart, please.”

Steve can’t help but laugh, rolling his head against the window. “Sounds like a real trial for me,” he says. Bucky kisses him, the two of them laughing, holding on to one another.

Sliding to his knees, Bucky rests his head against Steve’s belly, still laughing. “You want me to?” he asks, cupping a hand over Steve’s jeans and rubbing gently. His lips brush over Steve’s tummy. “Only if you want it, sugar.”

Steve traces a thumb over Bucky’s lips, inhaling hard when Bucky kisses it, looking up at him. “Yeah,” he breathes, “yeah, I want it.” Bucky breathes out, his lips opening around Steve’s thumb. He sucks the tip of it into his mouth and Steve moans a little, scraping his thumbprint over the ridge of Bucky’s teeth. “Bucky—please.”

Bucky doesn’t let go of Steve’s thumb, both his hands working at unbuttoning his pants and pulling them down. Steve’s breath hitches when his cock nudges against Bucky’s chin. Finally Bucky releases his thumb, saliva trailing along his cheekbone as Steve traces it, and in its place Steve’s dick brushes against Bucky’s lip. Steve chews his lip, trying to think about how pretty Bucky looks like this, his big dark eyes, red lips; because thinking about that is easier by far than thinking about the slick heat of his mouth, the way he’s—bobbing his head slowly, the head of Steve’s cock pressing against his soft palate.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Steve mumbles, his head knocking against the window, eyes falling shut. Bucky rubs his tongue slow at the base of his dick. It hits, then, at the base of his spine; Steve goes straight from zero to ninety, gasping with it, both hands clutching at Bucky’s head as he tries desperately to keep from shoving his dick so far down Bucky’s throat that he chokes him. “Oh, _Christ_ , Bucky—” Tense, tensing, his knees shaking, Steve practically claws at Bucky, orgasm tearing through him as Bucky sucks him.

He finds himself on the floor, his whole body wrapped around Bucky’s, still gasping for breath though he doesn’t know how long it’s been. Bucky swipes a thumb over his eyebrow, grinning. His lips are still bright red, slick. “There you are,” he says. Steve grunts—he can’t feel his legs. “Worth the wait?”

Sluggish, Steve rolls onto him, tucking his face into Bucky’s neck. “I _guess_ ,” he replies, and promptly falls asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi xoxo luv u

“How come you’re so tired, huh?” Bucky asks as Steve tugs the covers on the bed straight again. “You had a nap today and everything.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, “Didn’t I make it up to you? Didn’t I—what the fuck?” His feet won’t move further down in the bed, his knees still crunched up against his body.

“What?” The smile drops off Bucky’s face, and he grabs the other corner of the blanket, yanking it back. “Fucking—he’s a dead man. He’s fucking—get up, come on, we’re going to go bang in T’Challa’s bed.”

Steve stares at Bucky as he circles the bed, grabbing his arm and tugging. He gets up, stumbling along behind Bucky as he drags him out of the bedroom and down the hall. “Bucky? What—”

They turn a corner. “That asshole short-sheeted our bed, Steve. We’ve got to get him back.”

“I—you really want to have sex in his bed?” Bucky turns and gives Steve a maniacal grin. “I’m not sure I can do that, babe.”

“Why not, Steve, sweetie? I’m sure the sheets are clean.”

“That’s not—” they pause in front of a door; Bucky reaches for the handle. “That’s not exactly the issue, Bucky. I really don’t think that I’m physically capable of having more sex today.”

Hand on the doorknob, Bucky leans over and nips at the ticklish spot under Steve’s jaw. “That’s quitter talk, honey,” he murmurs, “just give me time.” Steve bites his lip, not wanting to say he might actually fall asleep while Bucky tries it. Bucky turns the doorknob, then, and Steve exhales: it’s locked. “It’s locked,” Bucky says. He sounds disappointed. “God damnit, he thought of everything.”

Tugging on his hand, Steve takes a step back toward their room. “Come on, let’s just go fix the bed,” he suggests. Bucky hesitates, looking at the door still, and Steve pulls again in case he decides to break it down. “I’ll help you think up a way to get him back.”

They remake the bed, and Steve climbs into it with a contented sigh. He really is exhausted, wrung out all over; Bucky kisses his shoulder blade as he gets into bed too, bringing his phone with him. Steve watches as Bucky types out a message to T’Challa: _ur such a fuckin jackass i’m gonna get u back so hard for this_. “It was actually pretty well played,” Bucky admits, crossing an ankle over Steve’s. “Driving all the way up here just to short-sheet our bed. But don’t tell him I said that.”

“Promise,” Steve mumbles just as T’Challa’s reply arrives: _Oooh, I’m so scared. Big bad Bucky’s coming for me oohhh nooooooo._

“I hate him,” Bucky mutters. He reaches over and rubs Steve’s skin absently. “I’m going to spit in all his ice cream.” _Im gonna pee in the pool_ , he types. _Im gonna eat all ur favorite ice cream. Im gonna print those pix of u in ur cat suit and tape them up all over the city_.

“You have pictures of him in a cat suit? What kind of cat suit?” Steve asks.

Turning to look at him, Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Why do you want to know about T’Challa’s cat suit, Steve?”

Steve glares at him. “Why do you think? Oh, Bucky, that’s half the prank—I’m in love with T’Challa,” he says. Bucky blinks at him, and Steve rolls his eyes. “Come on, Bucky. T’Challa is a grown man. Of course I’m curious about _his cat suit_.”

At that, Bucky busts up, throwing his head back against the pillow then rolling into Steve and muffling his laughter against his skin. “ _I know_ ,” he giggles. “Oh my God, I know.” He kisses at Steve’s shoulder. “Jesus. I’m fuckin’ tired, too. We can think of some more shit to do to him in the morning.”

 

Steve wakes alone, starfished across the California king bed. His phone on the bedside table is buzzing, louder than usual because it’s knocking against Bucky’s. Groaning—his whole body is sore—he grabs it off the charger and squints at it. There are seven messages from friends wishing him a happy birthday, and he smiles into his pillow before putting the phone back.

He’s just considering going back to sleep when Bucky returns. Peeking at him, he watches Bucky come closer, slurping at his coffee, a second cup in his other hand. “Happy birthday,” Bucky says, dropping off both mugs of coffee on the bedside table before getting back into bed. He leans over Steve to kiss him, slow, deep, and Steve sighs into him. Bucky sits up and reaches for the coffee. “Here, have some coffee.”

Propping himself on his elbows, Steve takes a few sips of the coffee while Bucky mouths at his neck. “You’re just making me do this because I have morning breath.”

Bucky laughs, his thumb tracing the lower curve of Steve’s ass. “You caught me,” he says, taking the mug back and putting it aside. He smacks one more kiss to Steve’s lips and then curls down over his back, mapping the valley of his spine with his mouth.

Yawning, Steve curls his arms around the pillow, not entirely sure that Bucky’s going to be able to get him all the way to orgasm. Or at least, he isn’t sure until Bucky runs a hand up the inside of his thigh and presses what feels like his entire tongue into Steve’s ass. Steve yelps and squirms, picking his head up out of the pillow because he already can’t breathe. Bucky chuckles and shifts around until he’s kneeling between Steve’s spread knees.

Steve shakes, reaching back with one hand to clutch at Bucky’s hair while he apparently tries to climb all the way into Steve’s body tongue first. He lets go of Steve’s hips with one hand, giving him a chance to get one knee up and his hips into the air a little, and pulls back; Steve cranes his head over his shoulder, prepared to complain. Then he catches sight of Bucky, fingers in his mouth, and he has to bite his lip to keep from groaning aloud.

“Patience, darlin’,” Bucky mumbles, drawing his fingers out from between his red lips and smirking. Steve flat out whimpers. Bucky pats him high on the thigh. “I know, sweet thing, I know. Don’t worry, I’m gonna give it to you in just a little bit. It is your birthday, after all.”

He leans back in, and while Steve faceplants into the pillow, he rubs his fingers gently at Steve’s asshole, teeth grazing over the base of his spine. This time, when Steve reaches his hand back, Bucky takes it in his free one, kissing at his knuckles as he presses a finger into Steve’s body. Gasping, Steve rocks back, already feeling totally taken apart.

“Babe,” Bucky murmurs, his voice low against Steve’s spine. He tries not to shiver. “Babe, grab the lube.”

Steve stretches, his knees sliding further apart. “You grab the lube,” he replies. “It’s my birthday.”

 

Steve and Bucky sit on the upper balcony to watch the Independence Day fireworks. There are perfectly good chairs and chaises longues, but Bucky spreads a big plaid blanket on the sun-warmed tiles and throws some cushions around. He produces a bottle of really nice champagne and an ice bucket, and a pile of fresh fruit so fragrant and ripe that Steve can’t help himself and eats half the plate before the sun even finishes setting.

They lie back as the sun goes down, necking a little. “You warm enough?” Bucky asks, one arm behind Steve’s neck, the other fiddling with the sleeve of Steve’s sweater.

“I’m good, yeah,” Steve replies. “You don’t have to take care of me all the time, you know. We’re on vacation _together_.”

Bucky pinches him and then gathers him in for a kiss. “It’s your birthday, sweet thing.” Steve snuggles closer. “Take care of you however I want on your birthday.”

About to answer, Steve’s cut off by a spray of red, white, and blue lighting up the sky, followed closely by a low crack. Instead of speaking he settles back into the pillows, lacing his fingers with Bucky’s, and they watch the show in silence.

The smell of burnt gunpowder drifts on the air as the fireworks end. Steve turns into Bucky and shuts his eyes, throwing a leg over his. “Mm,” Bucky hums into his hair. “You wore me out today.”

“ _Me?_ ” Steve picks his head up to glare at him. “I’m not the one who said there’s no such thing as too much sex, Bucky.”

Bucky laughs low, right against his ear. “Yeah, alright,” he admits. “That fourth round in the pool this afternoon was probably a little aggressive.”

“Probably a little,” Steve says, drowsy. He stretches up just a little and turns his face in to Bucky’s, and they kiss, soft, slow.

“Steve,” Bucky says, suddenly, sitting back a little to peer at him through the darkness. The only light source is the bedroom light they’d left on, several windows down and behind them. It’s so quiet, now that the fireworks are done, peaceful. The sharp acrid scent of gunpowder is starting to dissipate. “Steve, I think I love you.” He says it in a voice that’s revelatory, a little surprised. It’s kind of pretty cute.

Flattening his palm to Bucky’s waist, Steve tips his head into Bucky’s hand. “Pretty sure I love you too, Bucky.”

“Oh. Okay,” Bucky says, still sounding completely flabbergasted. “Good. Yeah. Good.”


	7. Chapter 7

The rest of summer passes in a warm haze of sunshine and ice cream and beach volleyball, and by the time September arrives Steve’s nose and shoulders are freckled. Bucky’s tanned all over, his arm around Steve’s waist making Steve look ghostly. Bucky even buys a dog bed for Honey when they stay at his place.

The morning after Labor Day, Steve wakes to find Bucky standing looking lost in front of his open closet doors, completely naked but for the towel slung around his shoulders. Steve sits up in bed, Honey immediately picking her head up from her bed to look around, and Bucky glances over his shoulder. “I know I shouldn’t be nervous,” he says, smiling a little self-consciously. “I’m just the teacher.”

Steve shrugs. “On days I know are going to be busy I get nervous before I go into the shop,” he replies. “Are you worried about what to wear?”

“Yeah.” Bucky gestures to the dark wash jeans he’s tossed onto the bed. “I mean, those—but I’m not sure if I should go with a t-shirt or all the way to a collared shirt. Like, will the students think I’m unprofessional if I wear a t-shirt? Or will it make me look approachable?”

Steve tilts his head, considering, and is about to speak when Bucky throws his hands up.

“But if I wear a collared shirt, do I look like I’m trying too hard? Or that I take everything really seriously? Will I look like I have no sense of humor?” Bucky groans and scrubs a hand through his hair; for a second Steve admires the way the motion makes the muscles in his back shift.

“How about a t-shirt and sweater?” he asks after a minute. “I know it’s probably too warm for that, but you could roll up your sleeves.”

Bucky doesn’t speak for a second, then spins on his heel to look at Steve. “You’re a genius.” He climbs onto the bed, crawling over Steve’s legs and kissing him. “Yes. A sweater. Obviously.” Rolling off Steve, he heads back to the closet, pulling out a pair of boxer briefs and pulling them on before opening his sweater drawer and looking in.

“Wear that green one,” Steve tells him, reaching for the steaming cup of coffee sitting on the bedside. The clock next to it tells him it’s not even eight. “Wait—why are you even up this early?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Bucky says absently, both hands occupied in the drawer.

Steve watches him toss the sweater onto the bed and pull on a t-shirt. “C’mere,” he says, putting aside the coffee again. Bucky looks up at him, putting down the jeans he’s just picked up and shuffling around the mattress until he can sit on the edge of it near Steve. Leaning forward, Steve pulls on Bucky’s arm until he can kiss him. Bucky hums a little, his hand landing on the bed next to Steve’s naked hip. His thumb traces the place where Steve’s ass meets the mattress. “You’re going to be fine, you know that, right?”

Bucky sighs, resting his cheek on Steve’s shoulder. “Yeah, I know,” he grumbles. “I’ve been trying to tell myself that all morning, but it isn’t working.” Kissing his hair, Steve just lets him sit for a minute. “Half the problem is—I’m not looking forward to teaching four days a week _and_ doing research _and_ finishing my thesis. I’m tired just thinking about it.”

“I don’t blame you.”

They sit in silence for another few minutes, Steve trying not to think too hard about how much they won’t be seeing each other over the next few months, before Bucky finally sighs and sits up again. “I should finish getting ready.”

Kicking back the covers, Steve gets up too. “I’ll walk you up to the university,” he offers. “Let me just brush my teeth.”

“You might want pants, too,” Bucky says, smirking, eyeing Steve up as he stretches.

“Nah.” Steve scoots past Bucky, laughing and parrying as he tries to grab at him. “Well, maybe. If you’re going to be so grabby.”

 

They stop at Bucky’s office on the way to his class; he shares it with two other PhD students, but they’re not in this early. Bucky opens his bag and shuffles around his papers, saves his presentation to a USB in case his laptop has trouble connecting to the projector. He has forty or so perfectly stacked and stapled syllabi, which he binds together with a butterfly clip before consciously deciding not to put them in his bag. “Who knows what kind of gross crumbs they’ll get covered with,” he tells Steve, hugging them to his chest as he slings his bag over his shoulder. “I’m sweating already. It’s so hot. I don’t think this sweater was a good idea.”

“So take it off,” Steve suggests.

Bucky hooks a finger in the front of the collar and pulls it forward, creating a gap that he uses to look down at his shirt. “I can’t,” he says. “This is my 25-cent mustache ride shirt. I might get written up if the students see it.”

Steve raises his eyebrows, fighting to keep the laugh out of his voice. “You promised me you wouldn’t wear that shirt anymore.”

“Oh, yeah, well,” Bucky says, shaking the collar of his sweater like a fan. “I lied.”

Rolling his eyes, Steve sticks his hands in his pockets and gives up on smothering his grin. “Whatever. You’re right. You can’t wear it in a class. Someone might take you up on the offer.”

Bucky sidles close and slides a hand over Steve’s hip. “I’ll give you one for free if you want,” he offers.

“Hard pass. And you have to get to class. Roll up your sleeves.” When Bucky gives a dramatic sigh, Steve rolls his eyes again and leans in for one kiss before nudging him back out into the hall. “Should I meet you after class? It’s only an hour and a half, right? I don’t have to be at the shop until this afternoon.”

Bucky scrubs a hand over his face, scratching a little at the hinge of his jaw. “Probably not. I’m supposed to meet with my adviser afterward. And then I think I’ll probably need to get some research time in this afternoon. You should...I don’t know. I’ll text you.”

 

An hour before close, when there’s a lull, Steve wipes down the counters and sends a message to Bucky to see how his day’s gone. When he finally closes up shop, locks the door and rolls down the grating, he checks, but he hasn’t heard from Bucky. He starts walking home, texting Sam as he goes, and by the time he gets there it’s only to shower and pick up Honey on his way to their place for dinner.

“It’s the first day of school, isn’t it?” Misty asks when she opens the door for him an hour later. “Shouldn’t you be waiting at home with dinner made for your tired and hungry professor boy?”

Steve shrugs, trying not to seem worried or upset that Bucky hasn’t texted. “I haven’t heard from him,” he tells her, “I think he’s been busy in meetings and getting some research going today.” He leans down and unclips Honey’s leash; immediately she turns to lick his wrist, then trots off to greet Sam, tail wagging. Steve gives Misty a one-armed hug and hangs up the leash while he kicks off his shoes. “How are you, though? How was your day off?”

She points at the massive clutch of daisies in a vase on the coffee table. “We had a chill day. Slept in, had pancakes. Then we went for a walk and Sam bought me those. It was nice. You were working?”

“Yeah.” Steve grabs a beer from the fridge and joins them on the sofa. “It’s always super busy on Labor Day. Bucky hung out at the bar with his laptop and kept me company, though. And his sister and her friend came for a bit too.”

Sam, Honey’s head in his lap, snipes a piece of Misty’s popcorn. “When are you going to do the switchover?” he asks. “I heard the weather’s supposed to get shit late next week.”

“I heard that, too,” Steve says, and yawns. “I don’t think I’m going to freeze any more ice cream right away. I’ll mix up some bases, and if I need them I can churn them. Otherwise I’ve got to start clearing the freezers out for the switch.” In the winter, Steve shuts down all but one freezer, and instead of ice cream he serves fancy lattes that come in ice cream flavors. He keeps a little bit of ice cream on hand, of course, because about once a week there’s that weirdo who likes to eat it even when it’s five below.

Sam hums, reaching over and rubbing a hand over Misty’s thigh for a second before sitting up. “I guess I should start on dinner,” he says.

“Maybe,” Misty replies.

They sit in silence for another minute or two before Sam finally stands with a groan. “Alright, alright, I’m goin’.”

“Thanks, baby,” Misty coos, grinning, and pinches his butt on his way by.

Steve still hasn’t heard from Bucky by the time he gets home; he sends him a goodnight message and falls asleep trying to remember the last time he’d slept alone.

He wakes sometime in the night to a weird scraping sound; when he rolls over to look he can see Honey dragging her bed closer to his. While she settles in, he taps his phone to wake it—nothing. Sighing, he lies down again, letting his hand dangle over the side of the bed and rest on Honey’s warm fur. “Hi, sweetie,” he mumbles into the dark. “I know you miss him too.”

 

The next morning he’s woken by a text message around 6:30. _oh my god IM SO SORRY_ , it reads, from Bucky, of course. _I got caught up in some research and didnt even see this until just now_.

Steve pulls his pillow over his head. He’s half upset that Bucky’d just forgotten to check his phone, half relieved that Bucky’s not using school as an opportunity to ghost him. Rolling over so he’s facing away from the bedside table, he tries to go back to sleep.

Twenty minutes later, he groans and rolls back over, grabbing his phone. _It’s fine_ , he replies. _I figured._

He rolls back over and tries to go back to sleep, but gets another text a few minutes later. _I think im gonna be swamped for the rest of the week. Can we do dinner on Friday?_

For a long minute Steve thinks about not answering, or saying no, or making Bucky wait until he’s had some more sleep. Finally he decides that’s just mean. _Yeah totally. Good luck this week_ , he sends.

 _Thx sugar. Xoxoxo miss u_.

 _Miss you too._ Steve puts his phone down and leans over the side of the bed to look at Honey, who’s sniffing at the edge of the mattress. “Think you can wait another hour or two to go for a run?” he asks. She tips her head at him. “Great. Thanks, baby.”

He’s out of bed fifteen minutes later, pulling on his running gear and grabbing Honey’s leash off the hook by the door. He whistles for her, and she comes trotting his way, already giving her big pittie grin. Steve crouches to clip her leash, and she licks at his face. “No—Honey, no,” Steve says, though he can’t help but laugh, trying to dodge her tongue. “Sweetie, quit it.”

He dodges so hard that he overbalances, tipping onto his button the floor. Honey, sensing a game, follows, climbing onto his chest and licking at his face while Steve laughs. “Okay, alright, Honey, enough. _No_ ,” Steve finally says, pushing her away just enough that he can get to his feet again. “Come on, we’re going for a run.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm fuckin sorry????


	8. Chapter 8

The week passes in inches, in drips of honey, and Steve finds himself checking his phone approximately every four minutes to make sure he hasn’t missed a text from Bucky. Usually he hasn’t, though every morning when he wakes there’s a message from sometime deep in the night to tell him that Bucky’s missing him.

Sharon catches him at it on Friday during the overlap in their shifts. “Hey,” she says, nudging him, “I know you’ve got a booty call to organize for tonight, but can you help that next customer?”

“What?” Steve jerks his head up, already blushing. He stuffs his phone into the front pocket of his apron and faces the older woman with the raised eyebrows. “I—oh, uh, hi, welcome. What can I get for you?”

He studiously ignores Sharon’s snort and gets to scooping.

 

Bucky pulls up on Steve’s block while Steve’s picking up after Honey. Sticking out of his backpack is a big bouquet of flowers, and he tugs it out and passes it to Steve before he even takes off his helmet. Finally he locks his helmet away and turns to give Steve a kiss, leaning down halfway to pet Honey at the same time.

“You look—” Steve starts, but the truth is he looks like he hasn’t slept since the last time they saw each other. “You look exhausted.”

“Mm,” Bucky agrees, sticking his face into Steve’s neck and mouthing at him. “Missed you.”

They head back upstairs; while Steve washes his hands and puts the flowers into a vase Bucky surveys the inside of the fridge, pulling out ingredients. “This looks like the makings of a stirfry,” he comments.

“It is.” Steve pulls a cutting board and a knife out and sets up next to the sink, but when Bucky moves to take his spot, he plants his feet and doesn’t budge. “You look like you’re going to fall asleep chopping and lose a finger. Sit. I’ve got it.”

Bucky blinks at him, clearly caught between wanting to take Steve up on his offer and not wanting to do nothing. “I’ll be fine,” he finally says. “You’ve been on your feet for—what, hours? I can cook.”

Putting down the knife, Steve turns his back to the counter, blocking Bucky’s way. “I’d rather cook and stay out of the emergency room tonight, Bucky. Just sit, okay? You really don’t look great.”

“Charming as ever,” Bucky says, grinning, but he leans in for a kiss and then backs off, rounding the counter and taking a seat on a barstool to watch.

While Steve cooks, Bucky tells him about his research, and while they eat Bucky tries to puzzle through how his class’s enrollment jumped after the first class. “That never happens,” he says, chewing slowly on a bite of stirfry. “You’re lucky to see enrollment stay steady after the first few classes—usually it actually dips—b ut mine jumped by about ten people after that first class.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “Yeah, well. As I was on my way out from dropping you off I’m pretty sure I heard a girl say something about your sweater puppies. So.”

Bucky stares at him. “You think my enrollment jumped because I—what, because I looked good?”

Steve shrugs. “I mean,” he takes a bite, “you did, though.”

Color creeping over the bridge of his nose, Bucky grins and knocks his foot against Steve’s under the table. “I can’t take all the credit for that one,” he says. “You picked the sweater.”

“Can you take any of the credit?” Steve asks. “You’d have walked into that classroom wearing just your mustache ride shirt if I hadn’t helped out.”

“Would not.”

“Would so.”

“Yeah, alright, I probably would have,” Bucky concedes. He takes a sip of water, his eyes dark on Steve. “Speaking of...what are we doing after dinner?”

 

They stretch out on the sofa together after dinner, Honey chewing on the piece of antler Bucky’d brought her—from where, Steve hadn’t asked. Neither of them is really small enough to fit comfortably on the couch, and with both of them it’s almost comical, their four legs stretched a foot and a half off the end, Steve lying mostly on top of Bucky so that he doesn’t fall off.

“Sorry about this week,” Bucky mumbles, his mouth wet under Steve’s jaw. “I don’t know why I expected to be eased into the semester. It’s not like it’s ever happened that way before. But it caught me more off-guard this time.”

Steve shivers for the feel of Bucky’s voice against his throat, sliding his body against Bucky’s. “You’re here now,” he replies, tipping his chin down to find Bucky’s mouth with his own. Bucky rests his arm heavy at the dip in Steve’s waist, and they kiss slow, hot, the moment spinning out, crystallizing, that slow honey drip returning but better, sweeter. Gradually, Bucky relaxes into the sofa, his body unwinding loose into the cushions.

Finally Steve pulls back just a little, just to breathe for a moment, and says Bucky’s name on an exhale. Bucky doesn’t reply, and when Steve goes back to kissing him his mouth barely moves, and finally Steve catches on and opens his eyes to really look at him.

He’s completely asleep, his breathing even, the furrow between his eyebrows gone for the first time tonight, though Steve hadn’t even realized it was there until now, seeing its absence. Part of Steve wants to be angry with him for falling asleep when this is the first time they’ve been within shouting distance—let alone kissing distance—in days. The other part thinks that this is kind of cute and a little sad, that Bucky was so tired he couldn’t even stay awake for sex.

Picking his head up as carefully as he can so he doesn’t disturb Bucky, Steve cranes his neck around to check the clock on the cable box. It reads 8:03, and he settles back down to let Bucky sleep for a little while before he wakes him to get him to bed.

When Steve finally gets Bucky up to move to the bedroom, it’s almost 9. Groggy as hell, Bucky stumbles a little as they walk, wrapping himself around Steve to keep upright. “Sorry, babe,” he mumbles, yawning into Steve’s neck. “I—didn’t realize how tired I was.”

“It’s okay,” Steve says. He feels bad for the disappointment lurking in his belly. He’d been looking forward to spending the night with Bucky—not just for the sex, but because he hasn’t seen and has barely spoken to his boyfriend in days. Steve pulls back the covers and tucks Bucky in, watching as he settles in and then worms one arm back out to reach for him.

“C’mere,” Bucky says, making a grabby hand. “Sweet thing, c’mere. I won’t fall asleep this time.”

Laughing, Steve goes, knowing he’s lying and letting himself be drawn into the drowsiest kiss he’s ever had in his life. “You should sleep,” he tells Bucky when he pulls back. “You need the rest.”

“But I…” Bucky sits up halfway, shoving the comforter down a little and tilting his head to a seductive angle. “Sweet love,” Bucky says, and reaches for Steve again.

Steve takes his hand and kisses it; Bucky purses his lips, kisses the air. His eyes are half-lidded in a way that Steve normally thinks of as sexy. Right now, with the bags under Bucky’s eyes, it looks more like he’s struggling to keep them open. “I need to brush my teeth,” Steve tells him, conceding when Bucky’s face crumples into a pout and leaning over him for one kiss. He pulls back, licks Bucky’s lips gently. “I’ll be back to pick this up in just a sec.”

By the time he gets back, Bucky’s snoring, flat on his back taking up two-thirds of the bed, just as Steve had suspected he would be. The light is still on. Smiling, Steve gets into bed next to him, watching as Bucky rolls onto his side facing him and tucks himself in against Steve’s leg. He picks up his book and settles in.

 

It’s the darkest part of the night when Steve wakes, bewildered. For a second he doesn’t know what’s woken him; then he feels the bed shift, Bucky climbing out. “Hey,” he says.

The bed shifts again, and Bucky’s hands find his face in the dark. He kisses him, so gentle. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” Bucky breathes. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

He starts to pull away, but Steve grabs for his hand, pulls it back to his cheek. “Where are you going?”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Bucky says again, leaning close. “I couldn’t sleep. I just—I have so much work to do, and I’m supposed to be in the clinic this afternoon. And I can’t get out of my head, so I thought I’d go home, get a few hours of writing done before I have to head in.”

Steve tugs on his hand again, still drowsy but waking up fast. “Come back to bed,” he says, soft into the quiet night. It feels strange to break the silence. “Buck—baby, I miss you. C’mere.” He kisses at Bucky’s palm, the pen callus on his middle finger. “I have an idea to get you out of your head.”

For a second Bucky doesn’t move, but finally the mattress shifts again and he gets back into bed, so close to Steve he can feel his breath. Steve turns into him, kissing him already, following him down into the pillows. In the dark, Steve manages to sneak a glance at the clock: 3:42.

Flattening himself along Bucky’s side, Steve slips his hand up under his shirt, traces his thumb around the edge of Bucky’s belly button. Bucky hums, the kiss deepening as he tips his head to a different angle and pulls Steve close.

Steve cups his palm over the growing bulge in Bucky’s sweats, rubbing at him. Bucky’s been awake long enough that he’s not loose with sleep, but Steve is, leaning over him and pressing a kiss to the base of his throat, the soft hollow between his collarbones.

“You’re so warm,” Bucky murmurs, his hand running through Steve’s hair. “Sweet thing, you’re so warm—your mouth is so warm.”

Steve turns his head, kissing the inside of Bucky’s wrist and then nudging it out of the way with his nose so he can shift down some more, further, dragging his lips over Bucky’s sternum, the soft part of his stomach, into the dip of his belly button. Bucky breathes in, shaky, mumbles Steve’s name. “Sugar,” Bucky breathes, letting go of Steve with one hand and reaching down to shove his sweats out of the way so he can pull out his dick and give it a slow tug, “oh, sugar, please.”

It’s late—early—and as much as Steve’s enjoying himself he doesn’t feel like drawing this out. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t lick or kiss or put on a show. Bucky can’t see him, anyway. He sucks the head of Bucky’s cock into his mouth, his lips bumping Bucky’s knuckles as he lets go of himself to scrabble his hand into Steve’s hair. The gasp Bucky lets out sounds like it’s been punched out of him, and Steve takes him deeper.

“Babe,” Bucky gasps. His hips flex, and Steve plants a hand on the mattress between Bucky’s thighs for stability, wrapping the other around the base of Bucky’s cock as he bobs his head. “God, you’re good at this. You stun me, sweetheart, you absolutely defy imagination. _Oh_ , you got the most amazing mouth on you.”

For a second Steve considers putting a hand down his own pants. He loves it—goddamn _loves it_ —when Bucky tells him shit like this, calls him pet names and lets his mouth run. But this is a care mission, a way to calm Bucky down, and he doesn’t want to get distracted.

Steve bobs his head, curling his tongue around the crown of Bucky’s dick, rubbing right where he knows Bucky’s most sensitive. Above him, Bucky’s breath stutters, his fingers spasming against Steve’s scalp. “Shit, fuck—sweet love, you’re so hot, you’re so—” Bucky gasps, his pelvis lifting off the bed and pressing up, slow like he’s trying to stop himself from fucking Steve’s face. “I wish I could see you right now. You always look so good this way, with my cock in your mouth.”

Breathing hard through his nose now, Steve sucks harder, flattening his hand to the inside of Bucky’s thigh. Bucky actually yanks at his hair, letting out that low rumble that means he’s close.

“Fuck, _fuck_ , sugar, can I—can I come in your mouth? I just want—baby, _oh_ —”

Steve pulls off, slow, his hand following his lips, focusing attention on his cockhead. Bucky flat-out whines, picking up his hips again to chase Steve’s mouth, his tongue. Gripping Steve’s hair, he comes, a hot flood that leaks from between Steve’s lips and over his knuckles.

“Shit, oh, fuck,” Bucky breathes into the dark. “Sweet thing, fuck.”

After a second Steve sits up, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth and leaning over Bucky to rub their noses together. “I’m gonna go clean up,” he murmurs.

“Wait, no,” Bucky replies, grabbing for him. “Wait. I want to get you back.”

Steve dodges Bucky’s clumsy fingers. “In the morning.” He extricates himself while Bucky grumbles, slipping out from between the sheets. “I promise, in the morning. Go back to sleep.”

 

Bucky’s alarm wakes Steve, early. It’s daytime—Steve can see strips of light along the edges of the shades—but the sun must still be high since there aren’t any beams of it leaking in. Behind him, Bucky rolls away from him, and the alarm shuts off; then he rolls back, gathering Steve close and nosing at the back of his neck. One of his hands reaches down between them, squeezing Steve’s ass as he presses into him.

“You said,” he mumbles against the back of Steve’s ear. “You still want to?”

Reaching back, Steve runs his fingers over the edge of Bucky’s ear and into his hair. He turns his head until Bucky gets the memo and leans over him for a kiss. It’s slow, inexact, until Steve squirms into a better position, his spine twisting, his ass still flush against Bucky’s crotch. In an instant the kiss turns hot, urgent, Bucky’s tongue opening Steve’s lips, his hand sliding under Steve’s sweats to wrap around his dick, jerk him into hardness.

Steve gasps, tipping his head back, arousal rocketing around his bloodstream already, woken from where he’d left it simmering just a few hours ago. “Take that as a yes,” Bucky says, his teeth sharp against the knob of Steve’s shoulder. “Oh, sweetheart.”

Rolling over, Steve wraps himself around Bucky, slinging a leg over Bucky’s and raking his nails up Bucky’s forearm. “Bucky, oh,” Steve gasps, and presses his pelvis forward against Bucky’s. “I want—fuck, oh, please.”

“Yeah, sugar,” Bucky replies, thumb rubbing one of Steve’s nipples, “you want it? I’ll give it to you. Just say it, sweet love, just tell me how you want it.”

Hardly able to think, Steve yanks at his own sweatpants, getting them down to his thighs before giving up and going for Bucky’s. “Fuck me, Bucky— _fuck me_.”

Bucky moans low in his throat, pushing Steve onto his back and following. “Sweetheart, yeah.”

They fuck in the dim half-light of the morning, sweaty. After, they shower together, and when Bucky gets his shoes on to head home Steve does too so he can take Honey out for a walk. They kiss goodbye with Bucky already sitting on his motorcycle.

The next time they see each other, it’s October.


	9. Chapter 9

It feels weird, not to see Bucky for so long after they’d spent so much of the summer together. Sharon reminds him, as he stares glumly at his phone one slow afternoon at the shop in mid-October, that he’d managed to keep himself occupied before Bucky had ever showed up. “Yeah,” Steve says, “but that was then.”

Sharon rolls her eyes. “Right.”

“If he doesn’t answer me soon, I’m going to end up wearing a singles’ costume for Halloween.”

“A tragedy,” Sharon says.

The bell over the door rings, and Steve sticks his phone into his pocket and turns. It’s Becca and Shuri. “Girls,” Steve says, trying not to be disappointed because this isn’t the Barnes sibling he wanted to see, “hi.”

“Can I have a vanilla-honey decaf, please?” Shuri asks, and while Sharon gets to brewing the coffee, Becca sets her backpack on one of the barstools and unzips it.

Steve clears his throat. “How’s your brother?” he asks Becca, who’s shoulder-deep in her bag.

She shakes her head. “I haven’t seen him in a few weeks,” she says. “He’s been so busy. I thought maybe he’d make time for you...?”

“I can barely get him to text me back,” Steve says, and then cringes. He shouldn’t be telling his boyfriend’s sister about their problems. It’s not the chillest thing he’s ever done. “I—don’t tell him I said that, okay?”

“Said what?” she asks, and winks. She pulls her arm out of her bag and puts a big heart-shaped box of chocolates onto the counter. “He asked me to get you these.”

Reaching across the counter, Steve slides the box toward himself. It’s red, shiny. He stares at it, not knowing how to react: happy to know Bucky’s thinking about him, or sad that Bucky’s so busy he can’t even drop them off himself, or angry that he’d enlisted Becca’s help and hadn’t just apologized directly. “I—thanks, Bec.”

“Sure.” She takes a seat on a stool and props her chin in her hand. “He’s always been busy during term, but never like this.”

Steve nods, putting the chocolates down and looking back at her. “How’s school going for you?”

She shrugs. “It’s fine, I guess. Bucky said he’d help me with my calculus homework, but I’ve had to get Shuri to help instead. Luckily she’s, like, smarter than Bucky, so...” Steve grins at that. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

Snorting, Steve winks. “Said what?” he asks, and opens up the fridge. “Here, I want you to try this. I’m experimenting with a caramel and chocolate-cookie swirl, but I think it’s too sweet.”

 

As soon as Becca and Shuri leave the shop, Steve pulls out his phone again and sends Bucky a thank you text for the chocolates. He isn’t surprised to not hear back from him right away, and he gets through his shift only by occasionally opening the chocolate box and looking at what’s in there.

The weather’s miserable when he clocks out, rainy and grey, and it’s only because the box is glossy that the cardboard doesn’t disintegrate in the wet.

Leaving his phone behind, he takes Honey out, but even she doesn’t look impressed, and she stops in the first patch of grass they see to do her business before turning back toward their apartment and pulling on the leash. “Alright, alright,” Steve says, “that’s fair. I don’t want to be out here either.”

They go back inside, Honey shaking the rain from her fur as soon as they get through the front entrance to the building, Steve scraping the soles of his shoes on the hall carpet as they head upstairs. When they get in, he unclips Honey’s leash and watches as she heads for her bed, rolling around in it until she’s dry and then trotting back over to where he’s leaning into the fridge looking for food. She’s got her favorite toy in her mouth, a rubber chicken that’s camo-printed that Sam had picked up in some thrift store, and she bumps his knee with it.

He scratches behind her ear and then takes hold of the rubber chicken, pulling some leftover noodles out of the fridge with his other hand. Nudging the fridge door shut, he carries the noodles to the counter, dragging Honey along with him by the toy. They play tug-of-war with it while he one-handedly gets a pan out to reheat the noodles, pulling Honey around with him, her nails skittering on the floor.

She sits by his feet while he eats dinner, still yanking on the rubber chicken, until eventually she gets tired of the game and drops it so she can rest her chin on his knee instead. He slips her just one chunk of ground beef, because he can’t help himself, and once he’s left his dish in the sink she follows him to the couch.

It’s only once he’s turned on the TV and decided on an old episode of Bones that he finally remembers to grab his phone from where he’d left it charging before taking Honey out earlier. Bucky has actually responded to his text within six hours, and he swipes the message open while he hugs Honey a little closer, nervous for no reason.

_Ur welcome. Sry ive been so mia. im fuckn dyin i miss u so bad._

Steve rubs his cheek against Honey’s fur. “He misses us,” he tells her, because she can’t read. “What should I say?”

Honey bumps her head against his. He types:  _It’s ok_ , and hovers his thumb over the send button for a really long moment. Before he makes a decision to send it or not, another text arrives.

_r u free thurs. Ill bring dinner._

Sighing, Steve deletes what he’d written and starts again:  _Sounds good. I’m closing that day. I’ll be at the shop till 5._

 _perf ill meet u there_ , Bucky replies, and then:  _love u_. And then a long string of kisses and hearts.

Steve sends:  _love you too_ , and then puts his phone on silent, plugs it in, and drops it behind the sofa. Then he pulls Honey’s front legs over his lap so he’s not tempted to get up and check it again.

 

It’s cloudy and frigid, but not wet, on Thursday when Bucky arrives at the shop at 4:45. He’s got his hood up anyway, and his nose is red, and Steve gives him a tentative smile as he gets an espresso brewing for a customer and reaches into a fridge for the almond caramel milk.

Steve passes across the to-go cup for the customer and follows her to the door, turning the sign so that the CLOSED side points out. When he turns back, Bucky is sliding up onto a barstool.

“It’s  _freezing_ ,” Bucky grumbles, keeping his hood up even though normally he’d have put it down by now, his hands still stuck in his pockets. “Jesus, it’s fuckin’ freezing.” He turns to look at Steve, his body hunched in on itself a little bit, and the wash of familiarity and how much Steve’s missed him crowds out any upset he’s been feeling. “Hi, baby.”

Crossing the shop, Steve steps into the vee of Bucky’s thighs and wraps his arms around him; Bucky settles his arms at Steve’s waist and turns to kiss the side of his head. “Hi,” Steve says, breathing him in. His jacket is cold against Steve’s cheek and the insides of his bare arms, but he holds on anyway.

“Missed you,” Bucky says into his hair, and kisses him again before letting him go. “Can I buy a coffee? Or is it too late now that you’re closed?”

“Closed for everyone I don’t like,” Steve corrects him, rounding the counter again. “What kind do you want?”

“That mean I’m the only person in the whole world that you like?” Bucky asks.

Steve rolls his eyes, waving a hand at the fridge again. “God, you’re vain.”

“Look at me, Steve. Ain’t I got a right?”

Laughing despite himself, Steve gives up on trying to get Bucky to pick something and reaches into the fridge. “I want you to try this one,” he tells him. “Your sister said some mean things about it but I want to see what you think.” Bucky nods, watching as he grabs a clean metal pitcher to froth the mix. “You want decaf, or regular?”

Bucky checks his watch, his jaw working, and Steve can tell he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Regular, please.” He swallows, still looking down. “I’m...going to have to get some work done tonight. Think I’ll be up late.”

“Oh.” When Bucky looks up at him, Steve looks away, focusing on the ground espresso he’s scooping. He should have known Bucky’d have work to do. “Yeah, okay. Are—do you, um, want to go to your place tonight? Then you can just, just get back to it, and I can get out of your hair.”

Bucky shifts in Steve’s peripheral vision, but he doesn’t look up from the coffee machine. “I was...hoping to stay the night at your place. And I’ll just come to bed late. But I—if you want, you know, a good night’s sleep, or...yeah, no, if you want we can go to my place. Whatever you want.”

“Either way,” Steve says, “I just want what you want.” He ignores the hard lump in his throat and sets the coffee machine. While it starts hissing and spouting steam, he returns to the milk pitcher, poking the frother into it and pulling the lever.

Finally the hissing dies down, and he pours the espresso into one of the larger to-go cups, then adds the hot caramel-chocolate-cookie mix, his hands absently completing the little leaf design on top. He passes it across the counter to Bucky, about to pull his hands back when Bucky grabs one, and he finally looks into his face.

Bucky’s lower lip is purple in spots like he’s bitten at it so much that he’s bruised it. There’s a line between his eyebrows and his shoulders are still wound up, even though the flush from the cold has left his cheeks and nose. “I want to stay with you tonight,” he says.

Steve turns his hand in Bucky’s grip so that he can squeeze his fingers, tug until he’s leaning across the counter. “Yeah, Buck, okay,” he tells him. He leans a little too, and they kiss, dry, just once. ”That sounds nice.”  


Steve goes to Luke and Claire’s Halloween party on his own, dressed as Iron Man, which is perfect because, determined to have fun, he gets so plastered that he pesters Luke into carrying him home fireman-style, which really seems like the type of thing that Iron Man would do.

He spends most of the morning lying next to his toilet, alternating between hurling and mouth-breathing. Eventually he manages to get half a piece of toast into his stomach and gives up on the day, getting back in bed using Honey as a pillow. She licks at his forehead.

His phone rings at some point, and he rolls over with a groan to answer it. “What,” he grumbles.

“Sounds like you had fun last night,” Bucky replies, half-laughing, and Steve groans again, not wanting to deal with this. “Do you remember drunk-dialing me?”

“No,” Steve admits. “Did I say anything fun?”

“Uh...you were mostly incoherent, really,” Bucky tells him. “You left me a message. Something about Luke or maybe you said ‘school.’ You kept having to stop to throw up.”

“Oh.” Steve doesn’t really know what else to say. He’s pretty sure he remembers the urge to call Bucky and tell him what he was missing, he just...doesn’t remember the follow-through.

Bucky clears his throat. “So I, um, thought I should check in on you. Make sure you weren’t, I dunno, frozen to death in a ditch somewhere.”

“Luke carried me home last night,” Steve says, suddenly realizing his mouth tastes like something died in it. He sits up, slow, wondering if he can make it to the bathroom to grab some ibuprofen and brush his teeth.

“Oh. That was nice of him.”

Taking a deep breath for strength, Steve gets up, shuffling fast to the wall, which he grabs to help him get to the bathroom. He doesn’t know what to say to Bucky right now, or at all, really. They haven’t seen each other in three weeks, and he’s only gotten about six texts in all that time.

“So I...” Bucky clears his throat. “I’ll have three days off classes at Thanksgiving. I’ll still have work to do—I’m supposed to get another thesis draft to my supervisor before winter holidays—but I was thinking I could get in touch then? I thought maybe you could meet my parents.”

Steve looks at himself in the mirror. He looks like hell, dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, his skin pale with a bit of a green tinge around his lips. He’s shivering and hot at the same time. There’s even still a little bit of adhesive on his chin from the stick-on goatee he’d worn last night. He swallows, turning and resting his face on the tiled wall. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he mumbles.

“What?”

Sighing, Steve grabs the edge of the countertop so that he can close his eyes without falling over. “I think we should break up.”

Bucky doesn’t speak for a very long moment, and if Steve weren’t so physically ruined he might be nervous. Finally, Bucky clears his throat again. “Okay,” he says, quiet. “I understand.”

Steve bites his lip so hard that he thinks the skin might break. “It’s just,” he says, because Bucky might say he understands but Steve wants to be sure, “I just. I know you’re busy, okay, but with how much I’m not seeing you I might as well be single. You know?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. His voice is raw. “No, yeah. I get it. It’s...it hasn’t been fair. So you should—yeah. You should be single. You don’t deserve to sit around waiting for me to call.”

Squeezing his eyes shut tighter so that he doesn’t cry, Steve sags against the wall. “I’m. I’m sorry, Bucky. I—I mean. Give me a call, okay, sometime. Once you’ve finished. Maybe...maybe it’ll be the right time then.”

“Okay. Sure. Yeah. I...bye, Steve. I—love you.”

“I love you too.”

Some time later, Steve finds himself on the bathroom floor again, his head pounding to match the pounding on his front door. He gets up, slow, sore all over, and finds Claire in the hall, carrying a plastic bag. “Wow,” she says when she sees him, walking into his apartment and kicking the door shut behind her. “You look like you got dragged behind a car for sixty miles.”

“Thank you.”

She snorts, reaching into the bag and pulling out a bright blue Powerade. “Here, drink this.”

Steve cracks it and does as he’s told, ducking into the bathroom for the ibuprofen he hadn’t had a chance to grab earlier. His phone is still on the floor, and he nudges it out of sight under the cabinet with his toe. He’ll come find it later.

When he walks back to the living room, Claire is making coffee, humming. “How are you not hungover?” Steve asks.

She raises her eyebrows at him. “I mean, it’s four in the afternoon.”

“Um. Oh.”

She brings a cup of coffee over, squinting at him. “Did you ever manage to get a hold of Bucky?”

“What? I—why?”

“You wouldn’t stop talking about it last night,” she says. “You cried about it. Three times.”

Steve looks down into his coffee. “I broke up with him,” he says.

Claire makes a hissing sound; when he looks up at her, she’s grimacing, teeth gritted. “Damn,” she says. “I was gonna make so much fun of you for the six thousand times you said you loved him, but now it seems tasteless.”

“Oh.” Steve takes another sip of his coffee, scratching at the back of his neck. “Well.”

“You don’t remember what you said?”

He shakes his head. “Must’ve been really embarrassing, huh?”

With a sigh, Claire grabs a seat at the table, and after a second, Steve shuffles over to join her. “You said you felt so sorry for how busy he was,” she says, taking a drink of her own coffee. “And how much you missed him all the time.”

“Well, that wasn’t a lie,” Steve mutters. “But I—I dunno, Claire. Just because I love him doesn’t mean I have to put up with what a shit boyfriend he’s been the last couple months.”

“That’s true.”

He props one foot on her chair and tips his mug one way and then the other, not quite enough to spill. “I just—it was  _so good_  for a while, you know?”

She pats his knee, looking at him for a long moment. “God, I wish I knew what to say,” she finally says. “Luke’s so much better at this than me.”

Despite himself, Steve laughs, putting his coffee down and leaning forward so she can hug him. He rests his head on her shoulder while she rubs his back. “Claire, I’m so hungover,” he tells her eventually. “Would you please just hand over the horse tranquilizers?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok first of all. sorry for taking so long to post this! i went on vacation for two and a half weeks. which was very nice but meant that i didn't want to deal with this.
> 
> on a similar but ultimately unrelated note, i am truly sorry for this chapter. does it help to know that things will work out in the end? i promise.
> 
> love u guys xoxo


	10. Chapter 10

On the morning of Thanksgiving, Steve gets Honey into her snow jacket and boots and they trot on over to his mother’s house. The three of them huddle at the window, watching for Sam’s practical adult car to pull up, and when it does they shuffle back down to street level and load up the trunk with three pies and a casserole dish of mostly-cooked mac and cheese.

Since college it’s been tradition for Sam’s family to host Steve and his mom for Thanksgiving. They bring dessert and carbs, and in exchange they get to spend the holiday with lots of people, which means a bigger variety of food and jokes.

It’s a tight fit in the car, Steve squished up against the door, Honey between him and his mom, each of them holding a pie. Misty’s got the mac and cheese between her knees up in the front seat; Steve’s holding the last pie close to his chest, the scent of apples wafting up into his nose every time he breathes in.

Steve’s looking forward to it: in the noise of the Wilsons’ kitchen, he’s hoping to quiet the voice in his head that’s been telling him for days that he could be meeting Bucky’s parents right now. He wishes he was. This will have to do.

It’s just about lunchtime when they arrive upstate. They pile out of the car; Honey nearly knocks Steve’s mom over as she bounds out, eager to greet Sam’s sister’s kids. Leaving the pies on the hood of the car for a minute, they unload all the bags: Steve’s backpack; his mom’s tote bag; Honey’s bed; the ten-pound bag of sweet potatoes Sam’s going to turn into mash later; the cooler full of ice cream; Sam’s and Misty’s little duffel. Steve manages to get all of the Rogers stuff into the house in one trip, even the two pies he’d been assigned to.

Inside, it’s mayhem. Steve makes it to the kitchen with only one bruised shin, and sets down the pies on a sliver of table space so he can kiss Mrs. Wilson hello.

“What kind of ice cream did you bring?” she asks as he bends over the cooler. “Some of that earl grey and honeycomb?”

“You know, I don’t even make that one anymore,” he tells her, and lets her scandalized face hang for a moment before continuing: “Luckily I know how much you like it, so I made an extra batch just for you.”

Laughing, she tugs him down for another kiss. “You’re too kind,” she says. “You’re sure you haven’t found someone who wants to spend their whole life with you? One of Sam’s cousins has been looking for a man of about your size and shape.”

Steve swallows and pulls two quarts of ice cream out of the cooler, tucking one under his arm so he can open the freezer and stick them inside. What is he supposed to say to that? He’s pretty sure he has found someone like that, and coincidentally it’s someone he’d been pretty sure he’d wanted to spend his whole life with, too. How often did that happen, in both directions? And how could he tell Mrs. Wilson that he’d let it all go, because Bucky’s been too busy getting an education?

“Oh,” Mrs. Wilson says, and her voice is soft. “Oh, I see.”

Steve doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t know how to do that right now. Instead he keeps loading ice cream into the freezer, four quarts he’d blended last night specially for this. He has to shuffle some frozen peas out of the way to close the freezer door.

He turns and almost runs Mrs. Wilson over. The drink in her hand sloshes a bit, but she manages to keep it from spilling. She presses it into his hand, wrapping her warm fingers around his. “Drink this,” she tells him. “And we’ll feed you so much you can’t even remember your own name, let alone his.”

Smiling despite himself, Steve takes a sip of what seems to be rum, spiced with a bit of cinnamon and clove and not much else. “Thanks, Mrs. Wilson,” he says.

She stands on tiptoe to kiss his forehead. “My mother tried to pretend like the best thing for heartbreak was a good fire,” she says. “But I think it’s a stiff drink or six.”

 

It’s nearly one in the morning when the evening finally draws to a close. Steve’s fingers are pruny from doing so many dishes, and he’s successfully managed to think about not Bucky for a good few hours, plied by wine and turkey and the particular Wilson brand of humor.

Sam’s so drunk he’s whisper-singing Christmas songs as Misty drags him up to his teenage bedroom. She gives Steve an exasperated grin on their way by, and Steve smiles back, struck as he frequently is by how he’d expected his and Bucky’s relationship to turn into one like theirs.

When he turns in to the living room, his mother is pulling back the sheet on the air mattress they’ll be sharing. “Left side, or right?” she asks when she sees him watching.

“Either,” he replies. “I’ll just—brush my teeth.”

In the bathroom he glares at his reflection in the mirror. One in the morning on Black Friday, the bitter aftertaste of red wine on his tongue, isn’t exactly the best time to get maudlin about Bucky. He scrubs at his teeth hard, making sure to brush the dark stain from his tongue and lips, and tries to spit all of his upset out with the toothpaste foam.

It probably doesn’t work, but he taps his toothbrush on the rim of the sink and sets it aside briskly as if it has.

Steve vacates the bathroom, his mother taking his place, and gets into bed, the air mattress creaking under him as he wiggles into a comfortable position on his side. Upstairs he hears someone shut a door; the tap in the bathroom go on and then off; a door opening and a light flicking off. His mother returns to the living room, and he listens to her switch off the lamp and pad over to the air mattress. It bounces as she sits on the edge and slips under the covers.

“Night, Ma,” Steve says into the dark.

“Goodnight, my sunshine boy,” she replies, patting his shoulder.

Her breathing evens out in just a few minutes. In the dark, Steve listens to the pattern of it. He loves this tradition: the exuberant dinner with Sam’s family; betting on the football game; playing one of their own after it’s over, out in the back yard; doing the dishes while Sam dries and Misty stacks and the parents chat at the table; sharing this mattress with his mother before they drive back to the city in the morning.

He loves it, but here, finally, in the silent dark, he can’t help but remember that if he hadn’t dumped Bucky, they’d be together right now, probably discussing whether or not Bucky’s parents had liked Steve.

Hugging his pillow, Steve squeezes his eyes shut and waits for sleep to arrive.

 

It comes easier, after that, slowly. Steve and his mom and Honey spend a few days leading up to Christmas in her little apartment in Red Hook. They go to midnight Mass together on Christmas Eve, stopping to light a candle for his dad on the way out. Their walk home is quiet, his mother’s hand tucked tight into the crook of his elbow, and they eat homemade bread with fresh butter and hot tea before turning in.

In the morning when Steve gets up the fairy lights on the tree are already lit up, and he enters the kitchen just as the kettle starts to whistle. Steve thinks about Bucky, about how their Christmas morning might have gone if not for—things—and for once it doesn’t sting so bad. Mostly it’s an ache, somewhere under his ribs.

Steve carries his teacup out with him while Honey relieves herself, and then they curl up on the sofa, all three of them, Honey burrowing in close between Steve and his mom, shivering a little. They eat soft ginger cookies and only turn to their stockings and presents once they’ve finished their tea.

That afternoon, Steve helps his mother hang the framed sketch he’d given her. He’d found a picture, one of the days he’d spent here after breaking up with Bucky. In it his parents seem—happy, relaxed. Between them on the picnic blanket is the baby version of himself, waving a little fist. In the pencil lines of his sketch, he’s nothing more than a little grey blob, but the motion is there, and anyway it’s not about him. Meanwhile Honey plays with the new squeaky toy his mother had bought her, and she examines a new knitting pattern.

The tradition is so easy, so right, that it barely even hurts that Bucky’s not here to experience it with them.

 

New Year’s Eve is different, though no less traditional. For the last several years, Tony’s hosted a big party up at the family estate in Scarsdale. His parents don’t come—they prefer to spend the holidays in Monte Carlo, where it’s at least warm—so it’s always massive, and glittery, and sloppy.

There must be at least three hundred people here, mostly people Steve’s never met, and he and his friends camp out in one of the smaller billiards parlors, playing a drinking game with Tony’s upper shelf bourbon. It’s an easy one, and they’ve played it a thousand times at nights just like this, so nobody forgets the rules even as empty bottles stack up.

Drink every time Tony’s butler Jarvis notifies them of something else getting broken. Drink every time Tony drinks. Drink every time Sam points out a bird. Every time Misty elbows him—whether for talking about birds or by accident as she tells some story. Every time Luke looks at Claire like That. Every time Claire tells an increasingly unlikely story about Matt getting injured. Every time Matt defends himself.

Only this year, they’ve changed one rule: where normally it would have been a shot for every time Steve picks up his phone to take a picture, this year it’s every time Steve sighs like the lovelorn bastard he is.

Still, the night ends cheerfully: around three in the morning Luke picks Claire up and carries her off to bed. Misty leaves soon after that, and Sam half an hour after her, only just then realizing she’s gone. Tony scampers off close to four when Jarvis shows up to let him know that someone’s trying to break into his lab.

Matt gets quiet when he drinks, and between that and the sunglasses Steve thinks he might be asleep. He drowses, sitting there beside him, dreaming a little about Bucky cajoling him into going to bed.

It startles him when Matt sits up suddenly and yawns. “Think I should hunt for a bed,” he says, “or I’m going to fall asleep on this couch.”

“Yeah,” Steve replies, sitting up too. “Yeah, same, probably. You need a hand…?”

Matt shakes his head, his hand finding his cane without any effort at all. “I know where I’m heading,” he says. “Thanks, though.” They get up, making for the same hallway that will take them to some of the cozier guest rooms where Tony tends to put up his favorites. “Hey, Steve?”

“Yeah, Matt.”

For a long second, Matt doesn’t say anything. Finally he stops outside of his room, and Steve pauses too, waiting for whatever he’s going to say. “Maybe you should…you know. Find someone. A rebound.” He shrugs a shoulder. “It’s just that he can’t be the _only_ one out there for you, you know?”

Steve doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what he could possibly say that might reassure Matt that he’s fine. He doesn’t think any of those things would even work.

“Anyway. Goodnight, Steve,” Matt says, and opens the door, kicking it and nearly tripping. It’s the only indication that he might be drunker than he’s letting on—well, that and his advice. It’s not something he tends to pass out unsolicited. Steve suspects it has something to do with his being a lawyer.

“Night, Matt,” Steve says, and turns to head on to his own room.


	11. Chapter 11

Steve meets him in a club that he shouldn’t be in on a work night, just the far side of tipsy. It’s late in January, and they only make out in the alley for a few minutes before the shivering sets in. He takes Steve back to his place, walking so close Steve can feel his body heat all the way there.

His name is Thor, which is—absurd, or would be if he wasn’t like almost seven feet tall and broad as hell, and blond. Steve can’t help actually wondering if he’s met a demi-god as he picks him up and pins him to the inside of his front door, kissing him.

It’s good, so good. Steve hasn’t kissed anyone in months. He doesn’t count Sam at New Year’s. He certainly hasn’t had anyone this close to him, this warm all up his front, hands this big or any size at all on his thighs.

He shudders, gets a hand into Thor’s hair, tugs a little. Thor groans, a rumble so deep it’s like thunder in Steve’s mouth, and rubs his whole body against Steve’s. “Oh— _oh_ ,” Steve manages, tipping his head back. Thor gnaws at his ear and grabs his ass.

Thor wedges himself closer between Steve’s legs. The twinge of a stretch flickers up the inside of his thigh, and it feels like he’s just jumped into a cold ocean. His eyes—when had he closed them?—fly open.

This place isn’t—right—too dark, and the kitchen should be on the left, not the right. Thor’s too wide, too tall.

Steve jerks and shoves and crumples to the floor.

For a long second, Thor just stands there, breathing hard, a few paces away from Steve, who flattens both hands over his face. It’s—none of this is how it should be: wrong apartment, wrong night. Wrong person.

Finally, Thor lowers himself to his knees so his face is more level with Steve’s. He stays where he is, just outside of touching distance. “Is everything alright?” he asks, then grunts. “Stupid question. How can I help?”

Steve peeks at him through his fingers. His face is pure concern, hands resting on his knees, shoulders hunched like he’s trying to make himself appear smaller. “I—” Suddenly Steve’s embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here. I...” Pulling his knees up close to his chin, Steve lowers his forehead to touch them. “I thought I could do a rebound thing, but I—I can’t.”

“Ah.” When he hears a shifting sound, Steve looks up; Thor is getting comfortable a couple of yards away, leaning back against the wall opposite. “How long has it been?”

Steve looks at his hands. “Three months.”

“And you were together for...?”

“Maybe—maybe six months.” It seems so short, now that Steve’s said it out loud. He probably doesn’t have a right to still be so sad about it.

He peeks again. Thor is looking thoughtfully at him. “They were special to you,” he says, and nods, like he doesn’t need further explanation, like that’s enough. Eventually Steve nods. “Would you like a hug?”

For a second Steve tries to remember when the last time someone hugged him was. Probably his mom. That can’t count. “Yeah,” he agrees, and meets Thor halfway.

Thor doesn’t ask, just hauls Steve up into his lap and holds him like he’s a kid. He’s warm, and Steve rests his cheek against his collarbone trying to decide if it’s okay, how nice this is. Then all of a sudden it snaps, the tenuous hold Steve has on how bad he misses Bucky, and he’s sobbing into a stranger’s chest, curled up in his lap and clinging to him. And Thor—Thor just murmurs something, Steve doesn’t know what, and rocks him, and rubs his arm, as if this is a completely normal experience for a Wednesday night.

At some point Thor moves them to the couch, literally gets up and carries Steve there like he weighs nothing. He nudges a box of tissues into the gap between Steve’s knees and chest. Finally Steve manages to calm down a little, his sobs dying into little hiccups. “There,” Thor murmurs, soft like he’s talking to a spooked horse. “That’s it. That’s better. I can see how much you miss them. Will you tell me about them?”

Steve takes a tissue and blows his nose, scrunching the tissue into his palm so that it doesn’t accidentally touch Thor. “His name’s Bucky,” he mumbles, looking at the folds he’s made in the tissue. “He’s a PhD student.” He smooths a wrinkle in Thor’s shirt, damp from his tears. “At first I thought it was great, how hard he worked. How driven he is. But—” Is it easier to talk to Thor about this because he’s being so kind? Or because Steve’s a blank slate for him, someone whose life he doesn’t know and likely won’t ever know? “He got so busy when term started that I figured I might as well be single, for how much I wasn’t seeing him.”

“But you miss him,” Thor finishes while Steve sniffs and blows his nose again. Steve nods. “How did you meet?”

“His little sister set us up.” Steve sniffs again and leans his head against Thor’s shoulder. “Her name’s Becca.”

“I would never set my brother up with anyone,” Thor says conversationally, and Steve waits, glad for the shift in focus. “I haven’t seen him since the last time he faked his own death.”

“Since—what?” Steve sits up so he can look Thor in the face. He doesn’t appear to be joking. “The _last time?_ Does this happen frequently?”

Thor shrugs. “More often than sometimes.” He hums. “Anyway, I just don’t think he’d make a very good partner, so I can’t set him up with anyone. I tried, once. They went horseback riding. But I think he was more interested in the horse than in her.”

“You’re yanking my chain,” Steve says, but Thor just gives him a placid look. “Stop! Seriously? What the fuck.”

Thor grins, then, but not in a way that looks like he’s finally letting Steve in on a joke. More like he’s glad Steve’s figured it out. “Now, that’s a good question.”

 

Steve wakes later than he should. He’d gotten home late the night before, and had chugged what felt like three gallons of water while texting Thor to let him know he was home safe. Then he’d fallen asleep with Honey lying halfway across his belly.

He rushes through his morning and jogs to work so that he can open the shop on time. There, he makes himself another cup of probably overly sweet coffee to knock his headache down, and stands there looking at the sleet outside for a long time. The weather is just about as glum as he’s feeling.

Thor had told him all about his crazy brother, and by the time Steve realized how late it was he’d been feeling much better—except, of course, that he’d utterly failed in his attempt to find a rebound, and was clearly still completely useless about Bucky. Eventually Steve had dragged himself up to go home. Thor had given Steve his number so he could let him know when he got home.

It had been—a remarkably refreshing evening, despite how embarrassed and sad Steve is. When he’d shoved Thor off last night, he’d expected to be kicked out immediately, but instead Thor had been—sweet, and caring, and decent. And instead of being interested in that, Steve’s too busy pining for someone he’d let go himself.

He’s thinking of texting Thor to say thanks, and maybe to ask him on a date, when the chime over the door rings. Steve straightens up and tucks his phone into his apron pocket—and winces.

“I—hey, Becca.”

“Hi, Steve,” Becca says, reaching up to unzip her jacket.

Steve reaches for a stainless steel jug to heat milk in. “Want to try a new one? I’ve been working on a honey cookie flavor.”

She shakes her head. “Can I just have a hot chocolate, please?” she asks, and Steve nods, reaching for the plain chocolate mix.

Instead of passing the mug over the counter, Steve comes around it to set it in front of her. She leans into his hug. “Been a bit, huh?” he says. “I missed you.”

“Yeah, me too,” she replies. “School’s been really busy—I just finished my exams, and we’re supposed to take the SAT this fall so they’re starting us on all these PSATs and stuff.”

Steve rounds the counter again and starts brewing an espresso for himself. “How’s—” he takes a breath—”how’s Bucky?”

Becca shrugs, but she doesn’t meet his eyes. “He’s okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Becca spins her mug on the counter, looking into it. She takes a breath. “He’s. Working too hard. And I don’t think he’s sleeping enough.”

Steve’s stomach turns over. It’s absurd, he tells himself, to feel guilty for that; and yet he does, somehow, especially when he thinks about how he’d spent last night. “Is he—is he doing real bad?”

“Not great,” Becca admits. She props her chin in her hand. “He looked like a vampire the last time I went to his place. All pale and wild-eyed.” Steve grimaces at his coffee. “I think he’s pretty close to being done, but in the meantime…it’s taking its toll.”

Sighing, Steve takes another sip of his espresso. “Should I—should I call him?” he asks.

“I don’t think it will help.” Becca takes a long sip of her hot chocolate and sets the mug back on the counter, cupping her hands around it. “He’s convinced you were right, breaking up with him. If you got back together now, he’d just feel guilty all over again for neglecting you.”

“Fuck.” Becca raises her eyebrows at him, and Steve gives her a grim smile. “Listen, will you just—just tell him I said hi, okay? And—and don’t let him get too bad.”

“Are you going to take him back? When he’s all done and graduated?”

Steve looks at her. Her eyes are steady on him, serious, and he can see the concern for her brother written into every line of her. He can practically smell it. “I want to,” he tells her. It’s the truth, and he can’t tell her anything but that. She deserves it. “If he’s become one of the undead, though…”

Becca cracks a smile, finally, and Steve smiles back. It’s hollow, for both of them, but it will have to do.


	12. Chapter 12

Summer arrives all in a rush, skipping spring almost entirely. The snow melts from the sidewalks and in sets the same muggy heat that Steve’s known all his life. With it, finally, comes some easing.

He doesn’t notice right away, too busy preparing ice cream for the shop. Most of his weekends are spent up in Scarsdale, lounging on the open lawn of the Stark estate with his friends.

One such afternoon at the end of May Steve wakes from a snooze to find Luke and Claire just arriving, Jarvis pouring them both glasses of sparkling rosé. He waves lazily, scooting over on his chaise longue so that Claire can join him. He wraps an arm around her so she doesn’t fall off and shuts his eyes again.

“Hey, wake up,” Luke says, nudging Steve with his foot. Steve peeks an eye open and makes a face at him.

“Don’t wanna,” he replies.

“If you’re going to cuddle my wife, the least you can do is stay awake and show her a good time.”

Claire snorts, but Steve sits up a little, aware that he’s probably right. “Fine, fine, I’m up,” he says. “What kind of good time are you looking for, milady?”

Sipping her drink, Claire shrugs. “Whatever you’ve got in mind is good for me,” she says.

Luke rolls his eyes, standing in their sun. “Claire, tell him about Colleen.”

“Who’s Colleen?” Steve asks.

“Colleen Wing?” Matt cuts in, picking his head up from where he’s sprawled on the grass. “And Steve?”

“Yeah,” Claire says, “I thought they might get along.”

Steve blinks up at the cloudless sky. Bucky comes to mind, but it barely even twinges; propping a wrist behind his head, Steve finds it doesn’t hurt anymore to think about someone else touching him.

“What do you think?” Luke asks. “Can we give her your number?”

“Yeah,” Steve says after a long moment. “Yeah, okay.”

 

Not scheduled to work, Steve wakes late a couple of weeks into June. He takes Honey for a long run, all the way up to DUMBO and back, leaving his phone behind.

There’s someone sitting on the floor in the hallway outside Steve’s apartment when he gets home. As he and Honey come up the stairs, the person gets up; backlit by the window at the end of the hall, Steve can’t tell anything about them except that they seem to be wearing some kind of cape or bag or something.

It’s not until he’s much closer, only a few yards away, that he realizes it’s Bucky. Bucky, wearing a black graduation gown, fidgeting with the front of it.

Steve pauses, but Honey jerks him forward by her leash, straining to get at Bucky, her tail smacking Steve hard in the shin. Bucky’s eyes flicker from Steve to Honey, and he goes to his knees, reaching for her. She whines, and Steve lets go of the leash.

Honey catapults into Bucky’s arms, licking his face. Bucky laughs, pets her, kisses her head. “Hi,” he says, “yeah, hi, Honey, I missed you too. I missed you too, sweetheart!”

Eventually Honey calms down some and settles into Bucky’s side, still licking his hands. Steve can’t move, can’t think. He’s been texting with Colleen for almost two weeks. They’re supposed to go see a movie tomorrow night. He’s—he’s _moved on_.

But Bucky, here, looking up at him, looking well and well-rested. It’s all crashing back in, and hope lights a little candle in his chest.

“Hi, Steve,” Bucky says. “I…” He waves a hand at his gown. “I’m graduating today.” When Steve doesn’t speak—can’t think of anything to say—Bucky ducks his head, absently scratching at Honey’s ears. “I thought—you said I should—when I was done. And I thought.”

Honey looks over at Steve from where she’s been staring at Bucky’s face. “Maybe we should—talk inside,” Steve suggests.

Bucky nods, his eyes serious. When he gets up, he picks Honey up with him, kissing the top of her head while Steve unlocks the door.

It’s not really better inside; Steve still has no idea what to say. At least it’s private in here. “You—you want something to drink?” Steve asks. “I…usually have coffee after a run.”

“I remember,” Bucky says. “I’d love one.” He follows Steve into the kitchen and sits at the table, still holding Honey, while Steve switches on the coffeemaker and gets it going.

“So you’re—you’re done?” Steve doesn’t turn around, instead pulling out two mugs and the milk. On autopilot he prepares both mugs, ignoring the fact that he remembers six months on how Bucky takes his coffee.

When he turns, Honey’s cradled like a baby to Bucky’s chest. His hand runs all the way from the crown of her head to the tip of her tail. He smiles shyly when he notices Steve’s looking. “I defended my thesis last week. I’d have come sooner, but…well, my grandparents are in town, and my aunt and uncle. For my graduation. So I’ve, you know, I’ve been kind of busy.”

Steve turns back to the coffeemaker so he doesn’t go over there and take Honey’s place. “Congratulations,” he says. “I—I’m glad for you.”

“Are you seeing anyone?” Bucky asks after a long minute. “I—was hoping you’d maybe…? I was—hoping we could have dinner.”

Steve tips one of the mugs, watching the milk ride up the side of it. “I’m. Supposed to go on a date tomorrow night.”

The silence behind him is deafening. “Oh,” Bucky finally says. “God, I—I’m sorry. I should have thought. Yeah. No. Yeah. Good. That makes sense.”

How could Steve have thought he was over this? His chest hurts, suddenly, and he scrunches his eyes shut, his whole face pinched, because— _ow_.

Behind him, he hears Honey being set back on the floor, hears Bucky get out of the chair, take a breath. “I should—I’ll take a raincheck on that coffee, if that’s okay,” he says. “I’m—if I hurry, I can make it back in time to walk the stage.” Steve listens as he takes a few steps in the direction of the door and then stops. “Steve, I—I need to apologize. For. How I treated you. You deserved a lot better than I was offering, and I. I screwed it up. And I’m sorry. I would take it all back if I could.”

Fuck Colleen, Steve thinks, half-delirious. Fuck that, and fuck the little wounded bit of his pride. He turns. Bucky’s leaning down to Honey, kissing her again, murmuring a goodbye in her ear.

“Don’t,” Steve says. His voice is raw, struggling to make it out of his throat. Bucky looks up at him. “Don’t say goodbye. Don’t—don’t _go_.”

Bucky straightens up, and Steve heads for him. They don’t even kiss at first, Bucky just pulling him into a hug so tight Steve can barely breathe.

“I’ll cancel the date,” Steve says, breathless, “just stay.”

Bucky sobs a little into his ear, and Steve fists both hands in the back of his gown, and then somehow they’re kissing, frantic, stumbling back until Steve hits the counter spine first. He gasps into Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky takes the chance, licking hot into him. “Steve,” he mutters, shoving up Steve’s sweaty shirt, his hands greedy on his skin.

Steve scrapes his hands through Bucky’s hair. “Bucky,” he replies, “I want—I want, _Bucky_.”

“Yeah.” Bucky bites at him, rumbles a groan as he presses forward against Steve. “Yeah, I know, I know, sweetheart. _Oh_ , honey.” Tipping his head to let Bucky at him, Steve hooks one leg around him, then is knocked almost off-balance by Honey bumping her head against them. They turn to her, Bucky laughing a little. “Not—not _you_ , Honey,” he says, leaning down and scratching her chin. She grins up at him. “Honey, go to bed.”

Honey licks Bucky’s hand for a second, then trots off. They watch, Bucky leaning hard against Steve, resting their temples together. “Bucky,” Steve says, holding onto him, “let’s go to bed.”

“Yeah, baby.” Bucky turns and kisses Steve’s neck, open-mouthed, wetting his skin, then takes his hand, kisses it, and pulls him toward the bedroom.

Rushing, they stumble through the door, Bucky’s gown catching on the doorknob. Between them they grapple to get it untangled, laughing, pausing every few moments to kiss at some patch of skin.

Finally between the two of them they manage it, and they fall against the inside of the door still chuckling. Steve wraps an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, pulls him close. Bucky leans in, propping one forearm on the door beside Steve’s head, and kisses him slow, sweet, his other hand cupping Steve’s jaw.

“I missed you so bad, sweet thing,” he breathes. His nose brushes Steve’s. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Steve pulls him in again, fumbling to find the zip on the gown. It’s an unfamiliar item, and he has to break the kiss to look down at it and get it open.

“My mom’s going to kill me,” Bucky mumbles conversationally, nipping at the shell of Steve’s ear. “I stole her car to get here. My whole family’s sitting through my convocation ceremony right now, and they’re not even going to see me.”

Steve looks up; Bucky’s so close their lips brush, not quite a kiss. “You bailed on your own graduation?” he asks.

Bucky blinks slowly, and licks at Steve’s lips. “For you?” he whispers. “For this? Absolutely.”

Steve kisses him, then, because if he doesn’t he might just start crying. There against the door he gets Bucky’s gown off, then his tie, his dress shirt, his belt. By virtue of the way Bucky’s got both hands under Steve’s shirt, it comes off as Steve kneels to untie Bucky’s shoes.

As he finishes the second one, Bucky’s fingers find their way into his hair, and he looks up at him, hand resting on Bucky’s ankle. “You’re so sweet to me,” Bucky tells him, tracing his thumb over Steve’s eyebrow and then down his face, over his lips. Steve opens his mouth and Bucky slips his thumb inside. He moans, just a little, as Steve licks his fingerprint.

Letting go of his thumb, Steve pitches forward, pushes up Bucky’s undershirt, and gets his lips on the patch of skin in the open vee of his unzipped pants. He pushes at Bucky’s pants and the elastic on his underwear, far enough that he can get his cock out, stroke it slow. He kisses at the base of it, Bucky’s hand back in his hair.

“Christ.” Steve looks up; Bucky’s leaned both forearms on the door now, and he’s looking down at him like it’s all brand new. “God, sugar, you destroy me. Get up here, would you?”

Steve goes, even though part of him would rather get reacquainted with Bucky’s body. But Bucky pins him to the door again, hard, kissing him like it’s all he needs to survive, and the heat of it drips down Steve’s throat and into his belly, pooling there and starting to boil.

Then Bucky leans down a little and gets his hands under Steve’s thighs, bare because he’s still wearing his running shorts. He rolls his hips against Steve’s, and Steve gasps, the puddle that he’s become solidifying again into something that aches, desperately, to have Bucky closer.

“Bed,” he demands, “Bucky—please— _shit_ —I want you in me.”

Groaning, Bucky’s hands tighten on his legs. “Yeah—yes—yeah, sweet love.” He puts his back into it, lifting Steve away from the door and turning, taking two steps to deposit him on the bed.

Instead of following him down, Bucky straightens up, taking a long moment to look at Steve lying there, and gets a hand on his dick. Steve bites his lip, hands resting lax next to his head.

Bucky nods at the shorts. “Get those off.”

While Steve does as he’s told, Bucky kicks off his shoes and shucks the rest of his clothes. Steve watches as he digs in the bedside, then comes back to him. When Bucky taps at the inside of Steve’s ankle, he makes room for him, letting his knees fall open so there’s space for Bucky to climb in.

“Missed having you here,” Steve tells Bucky as he stretches over him, his skin hot all up Steve’s front and the insides of his thighs.

“Yeah? I missed being here.”

Idly, Bucky kisses him, running his hands all over him. He nudges the back of one of Steve’s knees, guiding his leg up and around his waist.

It’s hot, so hot in the bedroom, and for a second Steve has to focus on that and nothing else as Bucky’s fingers press at him. It’s an adjustment, a conscious reminder to himself to breathe, to relax, to let him in—the way it always is, but more this time, somehow. So Steve breathes into the stretch, and trusts Bucky to make it good.

They get there soon enough, clutching at one another, and Steve has to close his eyes because Bucky’s so near. It’s—good, and it’s been so long, and Steve clings to Bucky’s waist so the motion of them doesn’t knock him right over. Bucky kisses him, and kisses him, and Steve can’t tell where his heartbeat ends and Bucky’s begins.

It seems like an hour and no time at all, but suddenly it all rushes at him: it’s Bucky, it’s _Bucky_ , here with him, here inside him, here in spite of everything. Steve comes with a gasp, with Bucky’s name between his lips, his body in his arms.

Bucky shudders into him, tense, and for the life of him Steve can’t figure out how to let him go. He’s not really surprised to find that his face is wet, and when he hears Bucky sniff he turns and presses a kiss to the spot behind his ear. “I love you,” he whispers. Bucky mumbles a similar, if slightly slurred, response. When Bucky tries to roll to one side, Steve tightens his grip, and Bucky rubs a hand through his hair, turning his head so that his mouth is right up against Steve’s ear.

“Yeah, okay, sweet love,” he murmurs, low, like this is a secret. “I’ll stay, I’ll stay right here.” Steve turns and kisses him, biting, and they might both be wrung out but it doesn’t stop them from touching, grabbing.

Eventually they realize that Bucky’s phone has been ringing for the last several minutes. With a groan, Bucky props himself on his elbows, ignoring his phone for a little bit longer to kiss Steve again, long enough that it goes quiet again. “Oops,” he says, his voice in Steve’s mouth, and laughs.

Then his phone starts to ring again, and he grumbles and rolls his eyes but gets up to answer it.

“Shit,” he mutters, turning to look at Steve, holding his ringing phone. “It’s my mom.”

They both start to laugh at the same moment, and while Bucky answers Steve rolls over and hides his grin in the sheets. The mattress dips next to him, and Bucky’s lips meet the place where Steve’s neck meets his back.

“Yeah, Mom, I’m sorry,” he says. “No, I—yeah, I know, I said I’m sorry. I—Mom. It was important. I promise it was really important.” The tinny sound of his mother’s voice is just too quiet for Steve to make out actual words. “Of course it was about Steve. Yes. I—I know.” Another question. “Yes, yeah. It worked. Yes. I—yeah, he’s right here.”

Steve looks over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. Bucky waves a hand at the phone and rolls his eyes, tipping the mouthpiece away.

“You want to meet my mom right now?” he asks. “I mean—not just my mom. My dad too, and my aunt and uncle. And my grandparents. I—yes, Mom—and Becca will be there too.” Steve looks at him for long enough that Bucky bites his lip and looks away. “I—I think maybe later, Mom. No, I’ll—meet you guys at home. Soon. Yeah. Okay. _Yes_ , I’ll be wearing my gown. Yeah. Bye.”

He hangs up, and tosses his phone over his shoulder, and presses his cheek to Steve’s back, facing away. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m—going to have to go soon. My grandma’s freaking out that I wasn’t on stage. She thinks I’m dead or kidnapped or something.”

“I can,” Steve starts, and Bucky shifts so he can see his face again, his lips red, pupils still dilated. Steve swallows. “I can come. If you want me to.”

“Yeah?” A smile starts on Bucky’s face. “Really?”

Steve nods, and Bucky presses his forehead to his back. Steve can feel his smile. “I need to shower first, though. And I should get them something. To—apologize.”

“Ice cream?” Bucky asks, his voice sending goosebumps along Steve’s lower back. “I haven’t had your ice cream in _months_. Becca kept refusing to buy me any.”

“She did?”

“Mm. Said if I wanted it I’d have to face you myself.” Bucky yawns, stretches, and flattens his body to Steve’s. “Which is fair. I guess.”

Steve reaches over his shoulder so he can run a hand through Bucky’s hair. “You could have,” he says carefully.

Tipping his head back so he can kiss Steve’s palm, Bucky shakes his head. “I couldn’t have. And even if I could, you’d broken up with me. It wouldn’t have been fair to you.” He sighs, his breath warm and damp against Steve’s lifeline. “I tried to tell Becca that she shouldn’t go, either. I didn’t want her to try and convince you to take me back, not while I was still so busy.”

“She told me I shouldn’t call you,” Steve tells him. After a second Bucky gives a noncommittal hum. “Seriously. She said I should wait until you finished.”

Bucky bites at the meat of Steve’s palm and throws his leg over Steve’s. “I beat you to it,” he says, and squeezes Steve until all the air is pushed from his lungs. “Okay. Let’s shower. I can’t look too sweaty in all the pictures my mom’s going to make me take.”

 

“You nervous?” Bucky asks as they step out of the elevator in his parents’ building.

“Yes.”

Bucky pulls Steve around and plants a kiss on him. “I’ll protect you.”

Steve can actually feel himself go pale. “Am I going to need protecting?” he asks.

Smiling, Bucky kisses him again, then takes Steve’s hand and kisses that too. “Probably not. But if you do. I’ll protect you.” Despite his nerves, Steve smiles back. “Love you.”

Steve squeezes his hand. “Love you too.”

At first when they step through the door nobody notices; Steve can see Becca talking animatedly to an older gentleman and a middle-aged woman with the same grey-brown eyes that Bucky has.

Then Becca turns and sees them; she grins, huge, and the woman Steve thinks must be hers and Bucky’s mother raises her eyebrows. Becca doesn’t notice—she’s already on her feet, bouncing toward them.

“You’re _back_ ,” she says, bypassing her brother entirely and jumping at Steve. Steve catches her, laughing, and Bucky grabs the bag of ice cream so that Steve doesn’t drop it. Becca gasps. “And you brought ice cream!”

“All your favorites,” Steve tells her, resting his chin on the top of her head and sticking his hand out to Bucky’s mom, who’s drifted nearer, her eyes speculative on Steve. “Hi. I’m Steve.”

She nods, shaking his hand. “I’ve heard.” When Steve glances over at Bucky, she laughs. “Not from him—he hasn’t had time to tell me about you.” Gently, she pinches Becca’s arm, and she squirms under Steve’s arm. “This one told me all about you. But I didn’t think we were going to meet you today.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Bucky says, not sounding sorry at all. He picks up Steve’s other arm so that he can wrap himself in it; Steve looks from him to his sister and back. “I thought it might be too soon, but…”

“Um,” Steve says. “Yeah, I—I hope that’s okay. I brought ice cream to make up for it. And because—well—you didn’t get to see Bucky walk, and it was sort of—my fault.”

Taking the bag from Bucky, Mrs. Barnes opens it and peeks inside. “Don’t worry, you’ll be making it up to us very soon,” she says. “We’re planning to be _very_ demanding about the pictures. Ooh, Becca’s told me plenty about this one.” She holds up the pint of caramel and chocolate cookie swirl, shaking it a little.

“What else did you bring?” Becca asks, making a grab for the bag and rummaging around in it. “Earl grey and honeycomb, goat cheese pear—oh, is this a new flavor? Almond?”

“We’re not even serving that one yet,” Steve tells her. “It was just finished freezing when we got to the shop. It won’t go public until we empty something else.”

“Let me see,” Mrs. Barnes says, taking the pint from Becca. She pulls off the lid and inspects the beige ice cream with what looks like a hint of suspicion.

“I think that might be the best flavor I’ve ever made.” Steve leans a little harder against Bucky. “I hope you guys like it. I think it’s really tasty.”

Mrs. Barnes holds it close to her face and sniffs it thoughtfully, then turns and heads for the kitchen. “Let’s find out,” she says, opening a drawer and pulling out a spoon.

“I—um, okay.” Steve lets go of Bucky so he can follow her into the kitchen, his heart suddenly in his throat, as if this will be the deciding factor for whether or not the Barneses accept him. “It’s—the texture might be—I left the almonds a little, um, chunky. For some bite. But I—you might not—”

For a long moment, he watches as Mrs. Barnes processes what’s in her mouth. Becca steals the spoon and takes a bite too. “ _Steve_ ,” Becca says, taking another spoonful for herself and then a third, which she brings over to Bucky. “Steve, this is _delicious_.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks.

“Oh my god,” Bucky mumbles, his mouth full of ice cream. “Oh my _god_ , Steve.”

Steve doesn’t even look at him, still preoccupied by Mrs. Barnes, who’s still looking at the pint, her jaw working. “I—what do you think, Mrs. Barnes?” he asks finally.

She doesn’t look at him, just pulls the drawer open again and gets out another spoon. “I guess you can stay,” she says, digging the spoon so deep into the ice cream that she pulls out a bite the size of Mount Everest. “If you keep bringing this over.”

 

Steve’s just cleaning the countertops when the low growl of an engine makes him look up. It might be Bucky, but they’re parking out of view of the windows, so he goes back to scrubbing a particularly stubborn bit of caramel.

Tonight they’re going over to Steve’s mom’s for dinner; this will be the first time Bucky will be meeting her. Even though Steve knows he shouldn’t be nervous, he is.

He bears down on the caramel and his nerves.

Finally the bell over the door rings, and he looks up; Bucky’s there, turning the OPEN sign to read CLOSED. There’s a bouquet of sunflowers sticking out of the top of his backpack.

“For me?” Steve asks, leaning over the counter for a kiss.

“I am, yeah,” Bucky replies, grabbing Steve’s apron strap for another. “But, uh, the flowers are for your mom.” Steve pouts, and Bucky rubs his thumb over his jaw. “I’ll buy you some tomorrow.”

“I guess that’s okay, then.” Steve retreats, swiping his rag over the now-clean spot where the caramel had been. He finishes the rest of the counter, humming, and hangs up his apron.

“Your mom isn’t allergic to sunflowers, is she?” Bucky asks. When Steve turns he’s chewing at the corner of his mouth, fiddling with the cuff on his sweater. This is the first Steve notices that he’s dressed a little extra nice, in a nice grey-green sweater, his hair combed back from his freshly shaved face.

“Just lilies,” Steve tells him. The line of Bucky’s shoulders is still tense, but eases a fraction. Coming around the counter, Steve pulls him into a hug, rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “You’ll do great.”

Bucky squeezes him. “I hope so.”

Rolling his eyes at the ceiling, Steve nevertheless keeps rubbing his back. “I promise. She’ll love you.”

“How do you know?”

Steve presses him back so he can kiss him, Bucky’s hands still clenched in Steve’s t-shirt. “Because she knows you love me.”

Bucky cocks his head, dark eyes seeming to examine Steve to make sure he’s not lying. “Okay,” he finally says.

“That mean you’re ready?”

After a second, Bucky nods. “I’m ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok listen first of all sorry it's so long? come find me on the tungles if you want the almond ice cream recipe thanks luv u <3 <3 <3

**Author's Note:**

> [find me here at tumblr.hell xoxo luv u guys](http://rooonil-waazlib.tumblr.com/)


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